A Mother's Heart
by BootsnHats
Summary: A Mother's Day Tribute - The Inseparables, on their way back to Paris after attending Alexandre's funeral with d'Artagnan, stop to visit Aramis' family in Bayonne. It's all play and no work for the Boys for a change. See A/N's for S3 warnings.
1. Chapter 1

_Warnings: This is not Season 3 canon compliant as regards Aramis' familial history. This story has been hanging out on my hard drive since last Mother's Day and I did not go back and change it after seeing S3:E4, mostly because much of it was already written, but also because I wasn't thrilled with the backstory they gave him. Additionally, this is the first story in this fandom that's not been complete before it started posting. I got sidetracked by War Heroes after watching the first couple of episodes of Season 3. I will make every effort to get this finished before I return to the War Heroes series, but I did not want to hold it for another year. And yes, I understand there are parts of Europe that have already celebrated Mother's Day, here in the US, though, we fete our mom's today._

 _FYI: In my TM 'verse, this story falls between A Good Son and A Different Perspective, so there are some references to things that happened to them in A Good Son._

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A Mother's Heart

"Not much further, now!" Aramis, in the lead, turned in his saddle to call over the noise of the rain pouring from the heavens as if God was in the process of turning the entirety of the province into an enormous lake.

"Aramis, we need to find cover until this lets up!" Athos, in the rear, shouted forward.

"Please!" d'Artagnan seconded through chattering teeth.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed, slogging alongside the youth. He reached inside his useless oilskin and pulled out a soaked kerchief, holding it out to d'Artagnan. "Yer bleeding," he said, touching his own cheek by way of explanation.

It had begun to hail small pellets of ice sporting jagged edges. It said something about how cold the Gascon was that he hadn't even noticed he was bleeding.

d'Artagnan had to snake an icy hand from beneath his father's cloak to explore the cut, the rain washing the blood from his fingers almost before his eyes could focus on the hand he held up in front of his face.

"We're only a league from home!" Aramis yelled back.

"We can't ride on in this hail!" Porthos bellowed, snatching off his own wide-brimmed hat to toss it with perfect accuracy onto d'Artagnan's head. "No need for you to be lookin' like a court jester too." The Musketeer's trademark grin flashed like lightening in the evening gloaming as d'Artagnan struggled to make his hands return the hat.

He managed to get it off, but his frozen fingers would not pinch enough to keep hold of the brim. He lost it and the hat hovered for an instant on a fortuitous air current between them before Porthos caught it and plunked it back on d'Artagnan's head. "Leave it there," he growled.

"Now both of us will just end up bloody," d'Artagnan ground out, unclenching his jaw long enough to turn his head and spit out the blood from catching his tongue between his chattering teeth.

"Nah," Porthos barked a laugh, "been out in the elements long enough this ole hide's 'bout the consistency o'leather. ARAMIS!" he shouted again.

"We've got two choices!" Aramis yelled back, "keep riding and get home as fast as we can, or stop and huddle together! This is the edge of property, it's all fields from here to the house! Not even trees to shelter under!"

The horses were clop clopping up a muddy, gently sloping lane, every plodding hoof beat splashing up a slushy mix of frozen mud and ice pebbles. They were surrounded on all sides by equally muddy, empty fields plowed into furrows awaiting the spring sunshine to plant the rows and rows of seeds.

"Then keep moving," Athos directed, hat angled to ward off the worst of the pinging pellets.

They were soaked from hats to boots, having ridden for nearly forty-eight hours with only brief rests for the horses, leaving them exhausted as well as wet and frozen. The weather had turned foul as they'd left Gascony and after a couple of hours the first night, they'd given up any thought of camping, re-saddled the horses and plodded on through the cold rain.

Their errand of mercy in Lillie had required little more than dropping off the purse the Musketeers had raised to help defray the expenses of replacing the barn roof, since it had already been re-thatched by the time they'd arrived. But the innkeeper had been grateful. And the weather had cooperated so amicably, their ride, as they'd headed diagonally down through the middle of France to Lupiac, had been swift and uneventful.

Aramis, poking around in what had been left of the kitchen pantry in the d'Artagnan farm house, after the lengthy and emotional service for Alexandre, had suggested they make a wide northerly swing to Bayonne and visit his home since they had so much extra time. They were not on the duty roster again until the beginning of April. Why waste it sitting around twiddling their thumbs in Paris.

Porthos, who had long since been adopted by Aramis' family, had been instantly in agreement. A subdued d'Artagnan, with a questioning glance at Athos, had shrugged his accord.

Melancholy had settled like a cloak around the youth during the priest's droning invocations and seemingly endless sermonizing. Athos had had to separate the man bodily from the young Gascon as the priest had trailed d'Artagnan to Alexandre's fresh grave, buzzing incessantly about the youth's familial duty to his farm tenants and his obligations to his retainers, not to mention the parish at large. d'Artagnan had been listless and quiet since, taking no part any of their discussions unless directly questioned.

It was not that Athos begrudged the extra travel, or even Aramis' desire to make this unexpected visit home; however, family reunions did not rate high on his list of fun things to do. Not that he had a list of fun things to do, but he was dreading this stopover more than visit to the tooth drawer. He would have headed back to Paris on his own if d'Artagnan hadn't roused long enough to insist on accompanying him. With the youth in this frame of mind, where d'Artagnan went, the other two would follow. And, last but not least, from Aramis' chatter about his mother, Athos thought perhaps a little mothering might do d'Artagnan a world of good.

The foul weather was merely a reflection of his own mood, Athos thought wearily, the tiniest bit irritated that he'd let the Gascon get under his skin enough to make this kind of sacrifice. He had not been aware the Inseparables had had a hole that needed filling, yet d'Artagnan had been with them for barely a month and already he fit as seamlessly as if he'd been an integral part from their inception.

Athos had fallen behind, lost in his silent contemplation's. His horse pricked its ears as the trio ahead picked up the pace, sensing - or perhaps smelling - habitation and the promise of warm, dry stalls and a good mash for dinner. At least one of Aramis' brother's bred horses, as Athos recalled. They would know how to please a horse here - which left himself as the only hold out. He could at least be as grateful as the horses for a warm, dry place to sleep, and food in his empty belly.

On that thought, Athos rummaged through his arsenal of coping skills and arranged his face to reflect gratitude.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis dismounted to open the ivy-covered gate at the end of the long drive up to the house, waited until the trio behind had trudged through, closed it behind them and led his horse straight across the green lawn.

Before he had crossed half of it, the front doors were flung open and a pair of teenagers tumbled out, one still pulling on a boot, the other dragging a poncho over his head.

"René! _Maman_ said you were coming home - with company! We didn't believe her!"

"And look! She was right!"

The pair capered wildly about, arms in the air, feet stomping through the puddles, hooting "René, René! And Porthos!" until a throaty feminine voice commanded, " _Imbéciles_!" though the tone was fondly chastising, "get their horses and allow your brother and his guests to come in out of the rain!"

Aramis was enveloped in wet hugs, as was Porthos, who grabbed both boys at once. "Sweet merciful mother you've grown! You were barely striplings when last I saw you!" He let them go and took a step back to give them a long look. "You're young trees already! Soon you will be giants!"

"You probably can't tell us apart anymore either, you've been gone so long!"

"Wrong!" Aramis clouted the first youth on the shoulder playfully, "You are Alain and this monkey," he grabbed the other in a gentle headlock, "is Archard!"

The ten-year-old twins shared a smirk. "Are you certain?" It was their new favorite game. They were alike as two peas in a pod and enjoyed nothing more than confusing their various relations. Especially the elder sisters who'd already been married and gone from the house by the time they were born.

"We'll be taller than you if you don't come to visit again soon!"

"Boys!"

"Yes, _maman_!"

"Right way, _maman_!"

Athos swung down, a bit leery of turning over his horse to these forces of nature. d'Artagnan still sat Zad watching warily from beneath Porthos' hat brim.

"They are completely safe, I promise you, _messiers_!" _Madame_ d'Aramitz called from the doorway. "They have handled horses since they were barely out of the cradle. Come in out of the rain, you must be frozen to the bone! Come, come!"

Porthos handed off his reins and went to pry d'Artagnan's cramped, uncooperative fingers from his reins as well. "They're a'lil overwhelmin' at first, I'll grant ya, but you'll like it here, I promise."

Aramis collected Athos' reins, handed them to his brothers and took Athos by the arm.

An entire regiment of laughing, squealing towel-wielders descended upon the drenched quartet as they made their dripping way into the great circular entry hall.

Athos, attempting to step free of the ensuing chaos, found himself the sole possessor of _Madame_ d'Aramitz's attention. "You must be the _Comte de la Fère_. I will trade you a towel for your hat and gauntlets, _monsieur_ , as I am sure you are completely saturated."

"Athos, my mother, Catherine." Aramis completed the introduction. "She will expect you to call her _maman_ by the end our of stay, but Catherine will do for now. Do not think of calling her _Madame_ d'Aramitz , she does not respond to that name." He rescued the Gascon from a flurry of toweling sisters. "And this is d'Artagnan. As he has only recently joined us, I have not had time to make you aware of his inclusion."

"I am delighted to meet you both!" Catherine drew d'Artagnan into a warm, encompassing hug, brown eyes dancing at Athos over d'Artagnan's shoulder. She loosed the Gascon and stepped back, keeping her hands on his shoulders. "You are gravelly troubled, _monsieur_?"

"Do not tease him, _maman_ , d'Artagnan mourns the loss of his father."

"I see." She hugged him again, pressing her cheek to his. "Grief maps its own course. Be welcome, d'Artagnan But what is your Christian name?"

"My father called me Charles when he was in a temper, _madame_ , my mother called me Charlie, I think, though I hardly remember her."

"Oh! My husband is Charles also. You must instantly be a child of this house, for none are named after their father."

"Where is _père_?" Aramis' laughing sisters had besieged him when he'd pulled d'Artagnan from their midst. He batted aside the trailing end of a towel to peer around the candlelit entry hall for his conspicuously missing parent.

Catherine threw up her hands. "I told him you were coming, but he must go and meet this or that person or his new export business will suffer. How long can you stay?" Aramis' was never home for long, rarely more than a night or two between his own this or that assignment.

"We've sent a message on to Captain Tréville that we are here," Aramis hedged. They had a week, but he would not force Athos to endure an entire week with his family if it appeared the _comte_ was seriously ill at ease. "We may be recalled at any time, but a night or two at least."

"I hope your father has the sense to conduct his business and return as quickly as possible, else he will miss you again."

"Tell him to come to Paris, we can connect him with any number of merchants who'd appreciate exclusive rights to a Bayonne brandy."

"The garrison wouldn't mind a wagon load or two!" Porthos' booming voice was muffled by multiple towels as well.

 _Madame_ d'Aramitz turned, holding out both hands to Athos. "May I have the privilege of your given name, _Comte_?"

Athos avoided allowing her to take his hands by taking her left and bowing as he lifted it to kiss the back of her fingers. "It is Olivier, _madame_."

"Welcome to our home, Olivier. I hope you will find your stay here pleasant. But my name is Catherine, not _madame_.

" _Mère_ ," Aramis interrupted, releasing Athos from his mother's silken entrapment, "we need to get out of these clothes. d'Artagnan especially, as he has only recently recovered from lung congestion. Shelter was difficult to find in this mess and we've ridden two days straight to get here, we are all weary."

"You rode from Gascony in this? Souls of the saints! Let them be, we will leave further introductions 'til morning." Catherine collected the soaked towels as she passed through the midst of the chaos, handing them off to various babbling daughters and sons as she shepherded the quartet toward the right side of the graceful circular stairway dominating the entrance hall. "I've put you and Porthos in the boy's room, René; Olivier and Charles can stay in the twin's room."

"We will all stay in the boy's room, _maman_ ," Aramis, leading the way, said over his shoulder. "And I'm sure both Athos and d'Artagnan would prefer you use the names they regularly answer to or, like you, they may not answer at all," he reminded with asperity.

The withdrawal of d'Artagnan's bright, spirited vibrancy had caught Aramis a bit off guard. Though thinking about it these last two days, as d'Artagnan had retreated further and further into himself, he supposed he should have realized the reality of that fresh grave had not really sunk in until the Gascon had stood beside it. d'Artagnan had been injured and debilitated for much of their trip to Calais, hanging onto consciousness by a thread for a great deal of the journey. There'd been no time to process his father's death. Nor had he had enough life experience to have moved beyond the extreme highs and lows youth often suffered. He would need his friends around him to find his way out from beneath the shadow of death.

"All right, if you'd rather, we can move the other beds in."

"We'll manage it, no need to fuss the others. Food and bed is all that's on our minds at the moment."

"Surely you'll want to bathe; it's the quickest way to get warm."

"Too much time and trouble." Aramis moved rapidly down a long, carpeted hall passing several open chamber doors 'til he reached the end and a door set straight on to the end of the hall. He motioned d'Artagnan and Athos past him into the room. "Get d'Artagnan out of those wet clothes. Porthos, let's get the other beds in here. Father's brandy wouldn't go amiss either, _maman_. I meant Athos, mother, not you!"

d'Artagnan roused enough to find a bit of his own grumpiness. "I'm perfectly capable of undressing myself." Though his fumbling frozen fingers gave to lie to the statement almost immediately.

"Get the twin's beds, we'll bring others down from the attic for them." Catherine ignored her son, clasping her warm fingers around d'Artagnan's as he struggled with laces and ties. The Gascon was too weary and cold to be embarrassed when Catherine set to work on them, stripping him to his smalls and bundling him into a blanket as she reached back with a slippered foot and dragged a chair closer to the fire. "Get out of the rest of those wet things," she instructed, "and sit here while they get the beds arranged."

Athos sank down on the raised hearth to pry off his boots, silently lamenting the frozen toes he was sure broke off in the process. He was wrestling with the second when a shapely backside presented itself practically in his face, his dripping boot was grasped in a pair of slender hands and he was instructed to push.

" _Madame_ , I will not!"

"Men," _madame_ snorted.

In the next moment Athos found himself face to face with _Madame_ d'Aramitz, who shoved her own foot against the hearth and yanked. The boot slid off, leaving a wet imprint of the sole on her spotless, white apron. She took the other he still held between his hands and set both in the inglenook beside the boots she'd already wrestled off d'Artagnan.

"Now, out of those clothes." Catherine put a blanket in his lap and turned back to d'Artagnan, grabbing a towel to soak up the water dripping from his hair. "You've got nothing I haven't seen for longer than you've been alive, but if you're that modest, there's a screen you can use," she informed Athos, jerking her head over her shoulder toward the far end of the room. "Close enough to the fire down there."

Athos debated, though his frozen toes and the warmth of the fire right beside him decided the issue. He rose and began peeling off articles of clothing right where he was.

"Oh dear." Catherine bent to inspect the small, jagged cut at the top of d'Artagnan's left cheekbone. "That might need a stitch if you don't want a scar there to match Porthos'." It was bleeding again, and as all head wounds tended to do, copiously, as his face warmed. "From the hail?"

d'Artagnan nodded; he had clamped his jaw shut to keep his teeth from chattering. His toes and nose and fingers were all beginning to tingle, though he did not think he would ever be warm again. He noticed Athos' jaw was clamped hard too, and grimaced in commiseration as the Musketeer shimmied out of the last of his wet clothes and wrapped his shivering self in the blanket.

Athos sat back down on the hearth, hunching over to conserve what little core body heat he'd managed to retain.

Aramis and Porthos set the last bed in place and began stripping as well. Catherine valeted more recalcitrant boots, added more dripping garments to the laundry basket conveniently left in the room and when the second pair was at last swathed in blankets and armed with more towels to dry their own hair, scooped up the basket and whisked herself out of the room, promising food and brandy in short order.

She did return shortly, with sons in tow carrying trays, who managed to hug Aramis at least a couple of times apiece as they passed them out. There was a great deal of horseplay and good-natured insulting between Aramis and Porthos and the four tray bearers.

Athos watched d'Artagnan watch the tom foolery from behind the curtain of still damp hair. The youth did not scoop at it impatiently as he often did, rather his reticence gave the impression of isolation. Athos wanted to shake the Lupiac priest by the scruff of the neck. And himself for having allowed the man to cull d'Artagnan from among them so expertly.

Nothing he could do about it now, the damage was done, though hopefully it was not permanent.

The _comte_ , from the genealogy he knew, deduced the serving crew was most likely Aramis' elder brothers Chace and Onfroi, and the two middle younger boys, Bayard and Perrin. Unless the elder sisters husbands were present this evening, in which case they might have been pressed into service, but the high foreheads and tapering cheekbones bore marked ancestral appearances.

d'Artagnan's curiosity was roused enough to ask, "Are you all brothers?"

"Aye, René has the privilege of being right in the middle, so he receives twice the abuse."

"How many of you are there?"

"Eleven siblings," Aramis replied, "and at last count nine - or last I heard anyway - nine nieces and nephews."

For this he was slapped across the back of the head by his eldest brother. "If you came home more, you'd know Juliette is _enceinte_."

"Ten," Aramis corrected. "And now off with you all, I'm sorry to be such a poor sport, but we can hardly keep our eyes open. It was a long, cold ride from Gascony."

"How long can you stay?"

"As I told _maman_ earlier, our time table is a bit fluid." As long as they could if it turned out to be beneficial for d'Artagnan. He must be sure to take Athos 'round to the places where he'd sought solitude whilst living in this madhouse.

"I've brought things to stitch up that cut if you will let me do it." Catherine was holding a small basket of curatives. "Or would you rather have René do it, since you know him?"

"She has far more experience than I at this sort of thing."

d'Artagnan's face was closely inspected by several different dark heads.

"I don't think it needs stitches, ma, your salve and a bit of sticking plaster to keep it closed will heal it just fine."

"He's young enough still, it will heal quickly."

d'Artagnan bore the scrutiny without comment, though his eyes widened when yet another took his chin, tilting it gently to better see the cut in the lamp light augmenting the fire's glow. "A stitch and the salve might heal it overnight."

"Likely it will close over on its own if we cease messing about with it." The eldest of the lot began herding his brothers toward the door of the chamber. "Come on, René has made his wishes known. He and _maman_ will deal with this just fine, let's leave to them to it."

They filed out still calling brotherly abuse over their shoulders, along with good nights and wishes for pleasant dreams.

"I don't care if it scars," d'Artagnan said tiredly, as the door closed with a snick. "I'd just as soon you put a bit of sticking plaster on it and be done with it." He slid his mostly untouched tray to the floor.

"I'll do it, _mère_ _."_ Aramis set aside his own tray of food. It held many of his favorites, or what had been his favorites; rare roast beef in a rich Béarnaise sauce, new asparagus from his mother's glass house, smothered in a bed of Hollandaise; potatoes sautéed in herbs and dripping butter.

He'd eaten a bite or two of each offering and one of the rolls scenting the room with their heavenly yeasty smell and found he was no longer hungry. He would have been glad for a warm bowl of Serge's stew and a slice of the hearty bread the garrison cook bought at the local market. Apparently he'd grown used to the lighter fare.

Athos had barely eaten anything either. He was lolled, eyes closed, against the fireplace surround, the stem of the brandy glass worked between his clasped fingers, more asleep than a wake.

Porthos was the only one who'd wolfed down everything. He did not care what he ate, so long as it filled his belly adequately. He too was sprawled in the chair he'd pulled up the fire, the hand with his half-full goblet resting on his belly, as he stared into the fire.

"I'm sorry, _m_ _ère_ , we're just too tired to eat." Aramis rose to take the basket from his mother.

"Nonsense, I should have prepared something lighter when the hour grew advanced. Sleep as late as you'd like, we'll make a big breakfast in the morning." She leaned in to buss Aramis' cheek, turning to take two steps, bend over Athos, kiss him on the forehead and pat his cheek when he startled, then turn yet again to hug and kiss Porthos.

She went last to d'Artagnan, who was fighting to keep his eyes open. Because he was sitting and she was a tall woman, she slipped a hand into his damp hair. "I am so sorry for your loss. I'm sure your mother was glad you could be home for the service."

"His mother passed away years ago, he told you that, _maman_ , downstairs in the entryway. d'Artagnan has no other relatives," Aramis supplied softly, working the salve he had removed from among his mother's supplies. The properties tended to separate and needed to be remixed with every use.

"Oh! You did. I'm sorry, it didn't register. Both parents!" Catherine exclaimed softly, sliding a maternal arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders and drawing him to lean against her middle. "So young." She sighed. "Know that your grief will be respected here and recall that our Lord pronounced a blessing on those that mourn."

Her scent teased at the vague memories d'Artagnan had retained of his mother, sounding an echo of a long ago lullaby that was both familiar and foreign. Touch was not something he had experienced much of in an intimate familial setting, tactility often being the demesne of the female contingent of the household. Yet the flutter of Catherine's fingers in his hair soothed in an unexpected and not unwelcome manner.

"Anyone René brings home is family. Just ask Porthos, we adopted him the moment he crossed our threshold. You do not need an invitation to return, nor must you bring either of my big lugs with you in order to be welcome. Our door is always open and our family always ready to welcome new members."

The tension in back and shoulders eased as d'Artagnan shifted in the chair and let his eyes slide closed. The combination of soothing touch and elusive memories unexpectedly quieted his stretched nerves, drawing him into an oasis of calm where he sank like a stone.

Reticence would never be a part of d'Artagnan's nature, it was yet the pure exuberance of youth little tainted by experience. He had learned caution, though, in his youth; his love for the sword setting him apart from the village adolescents whose only calling had been to follow in their father's footsteps as stewards of the land. While d'Artagnan had recognized there had to be farmers for folk to eat, his village peers had had no comprehension of the need for men who plied arms.

His father's death had abruptly dissolved his world. And yet, at the same time, broadened its scope immeasurably. To be among folk who not only recognized but encouraged the intrinsic longing for appreciation of his skill with weaponry was to be embraced by fate. Enemies had become friends, strangers had turned into allies and d'Artagnan's concept of family had stretched to include a host of individuals his roots in Gascony had never imagined.

While Alexandre had allowed d'Artagnan's pursuit of sword training, he had never whole-heartedly supported his son's ambitions. Though in the end, he had reached beyond the grave to make sure the young man's future was not shaped by guilt. d'Artagnan could sink into this comfort now because an unconditional acceptance of who and what he was balanced the intense longing he had had to bury for so long.

" _Mère_ ," Aramis reminded, rolling his eyes. His mother was never happier than when she had a nestling to care for.

"Yes, yes, I know, you must all get to bed." She kissed the top of d'Artagnan's head once more and released him.

He might have toppled from his chair had Aramis not grabbed a handful of blanket to keep him upright, which woke d'Artagnan enough to mumble thanks for the meal and shelter from the storm.

Porthos shook his head as the door closed behind Catherine, blinking away the stupor he'd fallen into as he stretched. "I'm fer bed," he yawned, shambling to his feet. He banked the fire and set the screen while Aramis salved and plastered d'Artagnan's small cut, then kicked Athos' feet, waking him as well. "If you're gonna sleep, may as well do in it a bed."

"Hmmmmm." Athos did not move until Porthos leaned down to grab an arm.

"S'warm here," the _comte_ slurred, attempting to shrug off the insistent hold.

"Yep, yer a bit toasty too, you'll warm the bed right up. Come on now, or you'll have a kink in yer back _and_ yer neck if ya sleep here - not to mention yer backside - come morning."

Grumbling, Athos struggled to his feet and shuffled to the far end of the row of beds. Porthos took the first bed, leaving the middle two for Aramis and d'Artagnan.

Aramis shepherded d'Artagnan to bed shortly thereafter, but returned to slouch in the most comfortable chair before the hearth. He had never thought to be thankful for the blessing his loud, noisy family represented, but it had occurred to him as he'd watched d'Artagnan watch his brothers, he alone of the Inseparables had family still. Porthos and d'Artagnan had lost their mothers almost before they could remember. Athos had been a teen when he'd lost his parents and Porthos had never known his father.

Aramis could not imagine being the last of his line; it was a sobering thought. He blew out the lamp, checked the banked fire out of habit, and crawled into bed telling God of his gratitude for the things he took for granted ... his family, his brothers-in-arms, his job. He was grateful indeed to be so blessed.


	3. Chapter 3

From her work room attic window, Catherine watched the entire male contingent of her household accompany René and two of his friends across the back fields, headed for Chace and Juliette's no doubt, though why they'd allowed d'Artagnan to remain behind was a puzzle.

She waited, wondering, and her patience was rewarded. The Gascon wandered out onto the terrace.

Catherine had caught a raised eyebrow or two directed from Athos to René, who had merrily ignored them. She'd been proud of her son's strategic indifference to those importunate looks. As a result the _comte_ had been relentlessly drawn into the banter, his dry contributions revealing a keen observer of life's foibles. Her son and his companions had only been here three days, but she'd watched them all alternately coax, chivvy and chide their youthful companion into participating in everything from morning rides to family meals.

Perhaps d'Artagnan had finally dug in his heels. Good for him; he was old enough to learn to listen to his heart. It would inherently know what was good for him. And today, it appeared, that was solitude.

She watched him pace the precise, straight rows of the kitchen garden, then map the border of the knot garden with his feet. He stood for a long time staring out over her extensive herb garden, the one in which she grew medicinals, and then appeared to find a purpose, for he turned and marched to the garden lean-to, disappearing around the back.

A smile softened the feminine version of Aramis' face as d'Artagnan reappeared with garden implements in both hands. A hoe in the right, and the awl she used for the more stubborn weeds in his left.

Purposely turning from the window, she returned to her work of mixing and pouring and stirring and measuring. Loose mullein leaves, a week's worth when ground up, stored in small cloth sacks, to make a soothing tea against severe congestion and fever. The bryony had already been pressed, the extract from the roots poured into bottles to which she added a small beaker of her husband's potent honey brandy to make a highly diluted solution that would treat headaches and serve as an alternative for cleansing wounds. Occasionally she rose from her work bench to stir the brew simmering over the fire, a powerful sedative made from the roots of the mandrake. A potion she made only for her own medicinal supplies, it was never left in the hands of a patient or even a family member. This batch though, she was making for René.

It needed an hour to simmer before it could be set to cool.

Porthos had been the one to share the news that her middle child had become the Musketeer garrison's resident healer. René had refuted the remark with a shrug and his usual charmingly rueful grin, saying he treated some bumps and scrapes and on occasion practiced his abominable sewing skills. He had laughed and said he still could not sew up tears in his clothing, but he had become a bit better at stitching up flesh.

Porthos had made a point of tracking her down later to tell her exactly the extent of her son's endeavors on behalf of his comrades. It had soothed her heart in a way she had not realized it even needed soothing.

From an early age René had been drawn to all things sacred. They'd sent him to the abbey school with high hopes that one among their children would chose the church. Alas, while incandescently spiritual, that middle child had not been cut out for church life. He'd been born in the wrong age, too long after warrior priests had evolved into the placid, peaceful personages they portrayed today. René could no more sit behind a desk and write sermons then leave off women, as the church ostensibly required. Though it was not likely there would be grandchildren from that quarter anytime soon, as he appeared to be married to that flintlock of his.

Difficult as it was, Catherine made herself stay away from the window, the passage of minutes marked by the verge clock strategically placed at eye level for timing the brewing and mixing of her medicines.

The simmering mixture began to permeate the small room with the tang she knew meant is was done and Catherine left off hanging up herbs to dry from the broad, low ceiling beam. Humming, she swung the kettle off the hook, set it aside to cool and returned to hanging the last batches of herbs.

She passed another pleasant hour gathering supplies she packed into the new leather bag she'd been working on since the last visit from René and Porthos, a bag full of medicinals commensurate with the new stature of a full-fledged healer. She was gifting him with some of her more potent brews now, decoctions, elixirs and recipes she had previously considered beyond his casual interest.

For his entire adolescence René had been wont to bring her wild things in need of doctoring. Abandoned nestlings, broken-winged song birds and hawks, and to the ire of neighbors - and his father - a litter of fox kits he'd flatly refused to drown. He'd had such an affinity with the animals, even the wild things had been docile and unafraid within the shelter of his hands. So she'd taught him how to tend their wounds and heal their hurts, all the while praying the gentler art of healing would become his passion, as many priests were also healers. Father Jerome at the abbey school had recognized René's unique talents too, introducing him to the writings of Hildegard von Bingen as well as some of her Greek forerunners.

Alas, weapons had also fascinated the youngster from an early age. She had hoped that enchantment might fade with maturation; instead it had become an obsession. The day Father Jerome had marched him home, authoritatively announcing René did not have a calling for the church, Charles had given the youth a choice - the army, or join his elder brothers in working the stud farm.

At seventeen, René had chosen the army and Catherine had become God's most ardent petitioner.

She set the large bag aside and moved to the window again. Her herb bed and the knot garden were weed free, and d'Artagnan's bent back was just visible between the tall rows of beans in the vegetable garden. Row upon row of damp, gleaming earth announced a soul in need of heart medicine.

Untying her work apron, Catherine hung it on the hook behind the door to her sanctuary and proceeded down the servants stairs to the kitchen. The last three days of cold rain had left the air crisp and clean as befitted a bright spring day, though after such determined employment a drink might be much appreciated.

She moved unhurriedly through the quiet kitchen, musing on what stores she could raid to produce a tempting snack. d'Artagnan had eaten little at breakfast; in fact, he'd spent more time toying with what little food he'd put on his plate than eating it, since they'd arrived. Grief often stole appetite, but it could coaxed back to life.

Even with her height she still had to stretch on tiptoe to fish for the last of the shriveled winter-stored lemons in the cold storage room. Returning to the kitchen, she juiced them quickly, added a spoonful of honey and enough cold water to fill two tall tankards, and then assembled slices of cheese along with slabs of salted, smoked pork on a tray. The drinks and some of the left over rolls from the morning meal went on the tray as well and a temping slice of warm-from-the-fireplace-oven apple pie. If she could not tempt him with this array, then she would cajole just enough to get some nourishment into the youth.

"Gracious! You've made short work of hours and hours of weeding! What a gift you've given me, d'Artagnan."

Catherine placed the tray on the small intimate terrace table she used for summer time interrogations of her progeny. Crossing to the edge of the terrace, she shaded her eyes from the bright glare of the sun. "I'm taking a break from my own labors, would you allow me the privilege of your company?"

The youngster clearly knew his way around a hoe and a garden. He'd wasted no time shilly shallying about what was a weed and what was new growth. Hoe proceeding, he'd marched down the rows with the air of a general determinedly marshaling his troops in defeat of the enemy. Perhaps she should ask him to tutor her younger sons in the art of conquering weeds.

The signs of defiance, now, were subtle, an infinitesimal pause of the chopping hoe, a suggestion only of a rippling clench of muscle beneath the wet shirt clinging to the slim back. He did not want company, that much was obvious.

She might have missed the quick swipe of a sleeve across his face had she not raised seven sons. It could merely have been to wipe the sweat from his face, but a mother became an instant interpreter the first time she held a child in her arms.

He had been raised only by a father, but that father had drilled the rules of hospitality into d'Artagnan. "May I finish?" he requested, managing to bury most of the snarl beneath politeness. "It will only be a few minutes more."

"Of course," Catherine replied instantly. He did not turn and she knew her assessment to be correct. This vegetable patch had been watered by tears before; privately she thought they gave the fruit of the garden more flavor. "It's a pleasant morning, I'm in no rush, take your time." She returned to seat herself at the table and took up a piece of cheese to nibble.

It was a beautiful day, birds chirping as they gleaned the fresh turned soil, a cool, caressing breeze lightly touching the budding trees that marked the border between the gently sloping lawn and the tilled farm land beyond. Bees buzzed around the bed of rare red tulips, their blood red cups gleaming under the bright sun, the precious bulbs a gift from her military son and the envy of the neighborhood.

That last garden row took nearly half an hour to complete. Catherine, however, was well acquainted with delaying tactics and waited d'Artagnan out with smiling complacency.

He finished at last and went to put away the implements he'd used to wage war against his grief. Returning, he paused at the edge of the terrace to wipe his muddy boots on the grass before traipsing across to join her, sweat-dampened hair framing a face grim with trepidation. He had not yet learned the manly art of concealment; dread tensed his shoulders and tightened the tender line of his clamped jaw.

"You cannot imagine the pleasure and satisfaction I derive from seeing my gardens so assiduously tended. And without beguilement," Catherine remarked, passing over a tankard of her lemon concoction. "You have just made lifelong friends of the twins whose responsibility those gardens are. They will be overjoyed that you've freed them from the tyranny of weeds for a few days at least."

A reluctant smile broke the grim determination stamped upon the exotic features. d'Artagnan took the tankard as he sat, setting it on the table, though he kept his hands wrapped around the coolness. His gaze followed it down, the little bit of smile fading quickly.

If Aramis was a masterful strategist, he had learned it from his mother. "René says you have not been with the regiment long, but I wonder how well you know the Comte de le Fère? I've not met him before and he seems ... less suited to the Musketeers than René or Porthos, don't you think?"

Years of observation had honed her assessment and interrogatory skills. The fingers clenched inflexibly around the tankard softened. She'd hit precisely the right note to engage the youngster and put him off guard.

d'Artagnan looked up questioningly. "Athos? He's the essence of a Musketeer, _madame_."

"A _comte_?" Catherine tsked, ignoring the _madame_ for the moment. "Raised in luxurious privilege? What could he possibly know of adversity and deprivation?"

The dark head bent over the tankard as if he studied it for errant bugs doing the backstroke in its depths. "I don't know him that well, but I can assure you, Athos is the hardest working among us, the first to volunteer for duty, the first to embrace privation. The first to offer assistance, the most loyal ..." A shoulder flirted with a shrug. "The essence of a Musketeer," he repeated, "I'm sure Aramis would tell you the same."

"Perhaps, but you have a different perspective, being newest to the regiment. The _comte_ seems a little ... unapproachable."

"Well ... maybe. A little ... to begin with when one does not know him at all. He is a very private individual. Even in the short time I've known him, I've come to realize he does not speak of his past at all."

"There is a suggestion of darkness that hangs about him, as if he's never free of some oppressive burden."

d'Artagnan darted a glance at his hostess. "I do not know what it is."

Catherine kept her own gaze on the buzzing bees. "No, I don't imagine even René or Porthos know much of the _comte's_ past. He seems a man who lives only in the present. But ..." she lifted and turned her head, smiling disarmingly at the young man barely an arm's length away. "I should not be discussing someone else's misery. Shall we change the subject?" she inquired with that charisma that was so much a part of Aramis' personality as well. One had not the slightest clue one was being charmingly manipulated. "I know René met Porthos in the army and went with Captain Tréville when he was commissioned to create the regiment that is the King's Musketeers. The _comte_ , I believe, earned his commission as the company's sword master. How is it you came to be with the regiment?"

But she had misstepped. She could not fail to see the shadow of grief that immediately regained ascendancy. Impulsively Catherine reached across the table to lay a hand on d'Artagnan's forearm. "This is in some way related to the loss of your father?"

His breath hitched, though he fought through the choking sensation burning up the back of his throat to murmur, "Inadvertently, yes."

"I understand if you'd rather not talk about it."

Fortunately, this had the effect of releasing the dam. Clearly no one had offered the youngster the opportunity to verbalize the terrible consequences of the events surrounding the loss of his sire.

The story came tumbling out, though in such fits and starts there was little continuity. He spoke only of his own role; the perceived missteps and errors in judgment that had brought about his father's death, his youthful arrogance and stupidity in storming the garrison to accost Athos with his baseless accusation.

A gentle question here and there, inserted at the end of a long pause or quick inhale, drew forth the story of d'Artagnan's brief acquaintance with the terror of being wanted for murder himself. And then of the strange sort of kinship their duel exoneration had fostered between d'Artagnan and the _comte_.

Having watched de le Fère effortlessly shield d'Artagnan with the same cloak of indifference he wore so convincingly, Catherine had no doubt the elder Musketeer had taken the youth under his wing.

"Was there a reason you let the others go without you this morning?" Catherine asked with an inquisitive tilt of her head.

The dark eyes swiveled to the tree line in the distance and d'Artagnan sank into a long silence. "I don't know," he said at least, in such a lost voice Catherine wanted to pull him onto her lap and comfort him like a small child. "So much has happened, so quickly, events piling up faster than ... I don't know," d'Artagnan repeated, attempting to hold back the tears he had thought dried up, with the fierceness of his unblinking stare. "I was at such odds with my father ..." Crystal drops swam in the distraught gaze, and when he blinked at last, clung shimmering to the long lashes before splashing like raindrops upon the tanned cheek. "I didn't know what he'd done ... and it shouldn't have made a difference anyway. And then he was gone before I could think to tell him I loved him ..."

Instinct kept Catherine in her seat. An embrace often gentled the harsh reality of tears, but d'Artagnan had been lessoned already in the art of caution; someone even before the _comte_ had educated him in wariness. She would not violate that boundary yet, though she did move her hand to collect the cold fingers from the tankard. "What was it your father did that snags so at your heart?"

d'Artagnan's throat closed entirely. It took mental effort to unclench his jaw in order to answer. "He told me we were going to Paris to petition the king in regards to the taxes in Gascony. But ... there was a letter..."

The fingers in Catherine's palm flexed, though he did not try to withdraw from the loose hand embrace. "A letter from your father?"

"Yes."

"You received it only after he was gone?"

"It was not a letter to me, it was to Captain Tréville, dated a month before we were to make the journey, asking for an interview. He said ... he said in the letter that I needed to know if I was good enough ..." the tears came silently and in a rush, making a small puddle on the table top. "... to be a Musketeer."

A mother knew the efficacy of tears as well. "And this was the bone of contention between you. Your father was a farmer?" She'd learned that much from Aramis, who had been unusually close-mouthed about the youngster.

"He loved our land, every furrow and ridge of it, every rock and stone and bush he had to wrestle from the ground in order to grow things. He could not understand how any son of his could not love it with the same burning passion."

Catherine let the thought simmer awhile, much like one of her brews, before adding a whisper to the back of a breeze so it wafted to d'Artagnan like a breath from heaven. "But he must have ... he must have understood if he made arrangements for you to interview with Captain Tréville."

"That's just it, I didn't know!" The cry was a little wild, but dropped away to a whisper again. "I didn't know, and I should have. What an ungrateful child I was."

"Oh, d'Artagnan, who told you this?" Who had weighted this impressionable soul with such grotesque guilt? "I know without a doubt it was not your father, for you would not be the man you are if he had tutored you with such animosity."

The sigh the youth heaved came from some deep well of festering pain. "I was too willful to submit to curb and bridle. My father is dead and I am left without recourse to undo the wrong I have done him."

Catherine smothered the scowl attempting to take over her face. "d'Artagnan." She let go of his hand to grip his upper arm, though she released him immediately when he winced. "What?"

"It's nothing." Porthos was not the only one whose hide the elements had toughened. Years of plowing, planting and providing for the animals in his care, no matter the weather, had had an effect on d'Artagnan, too. He was no baby-skinned youth, but the parish priest's arthritic fingers had left bruises. The Gascon had half risen by the time Aramis' mother snatched his hand again.

"Please ... don't go just yet."

He hesitated for several heartbeats, then sank back down on the chair, though with transparent reluctance.

"Listen to me." Catherine rose, keeping hold of his hand as she skirted the table to kneel before him, taking his other hand and bringing both to his lap. "If you hear nothing else I say during your time with us, hear this, please. Whoever planted these malicious seeds in your heart could not have been a parent. Your father would not have written to Captain Tréville, he would never have made arrangements for you to interview with him had he expected you to put your hand to the plow and never look back. Every parent grows into the knowledge it is the nature of children to want exactly the opposite of what we desire for our offspring. The good ones know when it is time to set them free to follow their own path. Your father loved you so much he knew he could not cage you where you did not belong, he was opening doors for you, giving you the opportunity to choose to follow your heart."

"And because of it, he is dead. Because of me!"

"No." The denial was delivered with authority. "That is not true." She had pieced together enough of the rambling story earlier to have put it in some semblance of order. "Your father is dead because he became embroiled in a plot to discredit the Musketeers. His death had nothing to do with you."

"If I -"

"Acht!" A hand shot up in front of his face. "Unless you are God's archangel, your actions could not have changed the outcome.

d'Artagnan drew a deep breath. His grief had not made him oblivious over the last three days; he'd seen the depth of the ties that bound Aramis' family. He had loved his father, but understood - too late - that his sire had been far more sympathetic to his frustration than he had had time to realize. It had left him bereft, the ability to reciprocate suspended forever in that moment before realization. It was something he felt deeply, but did not have the words to convey. "I should have been a better son."

Catherine stifled an impulsive negative murmur. d'Artagnan did not have enough experience to excise this entrenched barb on his own, telling him his thinking was wrong would only embed it deeper.

There was more, she realized in a moment of clarity, far more than the dramatic story of betrayal that had introduced d'Artagnan to the Musketeers. "Will you tell me who told you that you were such a horrible son?"

"What does it matter." It was not a question. "There is some civilization in Gascony, despite what the rest of the world thinks of us. And some self awareness, _madame_. I did not need anyone to point out my selfish behavior."

She wanted to shake him. And borrow her son's pistol to shoot the troglodyte in Gascony who had filled d'Artagnan's ears with such nonsense. Instead she loosed his hands, rose and went to draw her chair around so they sat knee to knee.

d'Artagnan had been so weary the night they'd arrived his memory of the evening was vague, but wispy bits of recollection kept him in place now.

"Was it one of your father's retainers?" Someone worried for their livelihood might be forgiven a temporary lapse in judgment. "Someone at the service?" She would wear him down eventually.

His gaze flickered and she had him. "Perhaps Lupiac has more citizenry than our little village here, and folk who meddle in things they know nothing about. Though I cannot pretend that does not happen here as well."

d'Artagnan huffed, attempting to pull a shielding anger around himself, "If you must know, it was our priest. Father Armitage practically lived in our home; he and my father were best friends."

He could not dismiss the paralyzing guilt the priest's admonishment had planted. The old man had trapped him after the service, pouring a vitriolic harangue into his ears as to his accountability for his father's demise, as well as his responsibility to carry on in place of the man he had as good as murdered with his willfulness.

Athos, far enough away that he could not have overheard, had nevertheless seen or sensed d'Artagnan's internal writhing. He had come unhurriedly, hat in hand, bowing deferentially to Father Armitage before physically prying the priest's fingers from the youth's arm. Only then had he spoken, voice innocuous, though the words had dripped acidity. "We will undertake the responsibility for his eternal soul from here on out, Father."

The perfect imprint of those clamped fingers would fade eventually, the wagon ruts the priest had gouged into d'Artagnan's soul might never grow over. Those deep ruts had stalled the ability to move either forward into this new and much desired career path that had opened up so miraculously, yet so perversely. Or even backward to take up his old life again. The entanglement of hopes and dreams with the poisoned pain of loss had entrapped him as though a fly in a spider's web.

The dam was cracking, the holding back less intrinsic to the youth than a learned behavior, and he was young enough still to accept a mother's embrace. Catherine had only to sway forward to slip her arms around the lean middle. She drew his head to her shoulder and let him weep the silent tears of the damned and dispossessed.

God had given her a large family, and with each addition, enlarged her heart to encompass the new pair or pairs of tiny hands and feet. She might be done with increasing, but He continued to drop strays in her nest in need of mothering. Porthos had not been the first beyond her family that she'd taken to her heart; d'Artagnan would not be the last.

Laying her cheek against his sweat-soaked hair, she began to move a hand soothingly over the powerful fencer's shoulders, circling between his shoulder blades, offering the simple solace of a mother's touch. Eventually the heaving of his chest began to ease, his breathing returned to something like normal and she let him draw back. Though immediately, as he opened his mouth to speak, she shushed him with a finger across his lips before reaching to take both his hands again.

"I cannot speak for your father, but you must know, here in your heart," she moved their joined hands to rest against the strong beat of his heart, "that your father would never place the blame for his death on you. Nor are you an unnatural son."

She withdrew her hand to fish for her ever present handkerchief - a mother was not properly attired without one - and tenderly dried the fat, left-over tears still rolling down his cheeks. "Perhaps it is impossible for children to understand or accept that a parent's love is unconditional, until they are parents themselves. Because we try to mold and shape our children's characters with rules and discipline, it does not mean we want to stifle your dreams, even when they don't match to the ones we have for you."

She turned his cheek when he would have looked away, maintaining eye contact. "I had every intention of raising at least one of my children to be a spiritual leader. The only one with any inclination was René, and I did everything in my power to make his path clear. It was not his destiny, though I think perhaps he is a spiritual leader, just not the kind I had envisioned. I could not love him more," she said softly, gentling the earnestness of her tone lest d'Artagnan shy away. "René had the strength of purpose to follow his path despite my prodding, I'm proud of him for that. And I'm sure your father is quite satisfied with himself for having had a part in garnering you a spot where you too may pursue the path meant for you. I can picture your mother welcoming him with open arms and hearty congratulations on the fine job he's done raising you."

Catherine paused allowing time for the watery half-smile to form before continuing. "I imagine it's a bit exhilarating and maybe a little intimidating to be suddenly all on your own; you are still young to be without family. I hope you will feel like one of our own before you leave and know in your heart you will be welcomed here at any time."

Her heart bled for this subdued creature who had barely known a mother's love and experienced the love of a no doubt bluff and hearty father, but one who had shown little emotion toward his only child until it had been too late. She was glad for d'Artagnan's sake, there had been tangible evidence of his father's desire to facilitate the youngster's pursuit of a military career, else he would have been a very tortured soul indeed.

The smile this time was a bit less wobbly, though it was a shy one, accompanied by a glance up from under his lashes. "Aramis is a fortunate son."

"Oh, he is and you should tell him that often, but you are welcome to share his fortune." Catherine rose, hugged him around the shoulders again and changed the tone as adroitly as her son. "I have nothing else for you to weed, but I could use some help in the kitchen. Or perhaps you'd rather sit out here for awhile and relax. If you're inclined to a little exercise, there is a lovely walk along the creek if you amble back around the garden lean-to and past the barn. Weeping willows line the banks, you can't miss it."

d'Artagnan rose as well, setting his chair back under the table and picking up the tray as Catherine reached for it. "I've never been very good in the kitchen, but I'd like to help." Solitude did not seem so seductive anymore.

Her words had found fertile soil, they made a kind of sense it might have taken awhile to get around to realizing for himself, though it would take a bit more time to choke out Father Armitage's foul planting. Still, the cloud of depression was drifting off - for the nonce at least. He wiped his dripping nose on the back of his sleeve as he followed Aramis' mother into the dimness of the kitchen.

"Even tolerable help is better than none, the kitchen is not my favorite place and Josette and Amélie have gone to Inès' for the day , so your help will be more than welcome."

"What _is_ your favorite place?" d'Artagnan had never been in the midst of such a large family. His boundless curiosity, having taken a nap this last month, was apparently waking up again.

Catherine turned to tell him, catching a glimpse of a faraway look in his eyes. "What is it?"

"There was a rose arbor in the garden behind our home." d'Artagnan set the tray on a countertop nearly filled with tightly sealed jars. "My mother would read me stories there on fine summer days." He shook his head, coming back to the present. "But you were about to tell me your favorite place."

Catherine took the tray and set it on the big table in the middle of the kitchen. "You ate so little this morning, I really must feed you before setting you to work again." She drew him over to the bench and made him sit, then put a plate before him and a damp cloth to clean his hands. "It is a little room upstairs under the eaves in the attic, converted servant's quarters that I've turned into a workroom where I dry herbs and create my witch's brews."

d'Artagnan, hungry for the first time in days, turned his head at the sound of her laugh. She was so like Aramis it was uncanny.

"René would fuss if he heard me telling you that, he worries that I will say something to the wrong person and find myself atop a pile of kindling. There's not a soul in our parts that would make such an accusation. He worries needlessly."

"Maybe he worries because he's seen it happen." d'Artagnan had received an eye-opening education in the last month. "As a Musketeer carrying out the king's justice, he may have had to participate."

Catherine had turned to go to the cold storage to collect potatoes for peeling. This stopped her in her tracks. "Well ... that could explain a lot."

d'Artagnan cleared his throat, uncomfortably aware he might have spilled beans that weren't his to spill. If Aramis had not told his mother of his duties as a Musketeer, there was a reason.

Catherine glanced back at him speculatively. "It is just that that thought had never occurred to me. We see him so rarely, when René comes home the boys want to hear all about his adventures. He and Porthos entertain us with their close calls with spies and the political intrigue of the king's court. Until he moved to the Musketeers with Tréville, he had regular leave and we saw him often. I wonder does he stay away now so he does not have to tell us of the things he has seen and done."

d'Artagnan had no answer.

Abruptly, sunlight spilled across the kitchen floor, breaking the rapt spell that held them both in thrall, followed by giant shadows blocking the bright square of light as boys and men spilled into the room. Catherine disappeared in the direction of the cold storage.

The table was suddenly full around d'Artagnan, Aramis beside him, Porthos across from him, and Athos flicking a hand, motioning him to slide over so the elder Musketeer could sit on the other side.

"So what did you do this morning?" Aramis wanted to know, plucking cheese and a roll from d'Artagnan's plate.

"He weeded all my gardens. You two," Catherine, returning with a basket of potatoes balanced on her hip, indicated the twins with a jerk of her chin, "had better thank him. In two hours he accomplished what it takes the two of you a week to finish."

"You weeded everything?" the twins chorused together, laughing uproariously at their duet. "Everything?" They turned to d'Artagnan as one, draping themselves over Aramis' shoulders to do so.

Aramis brushed them off like annoying gnats. "We'll find something else for you to weed if you have nothing else to do."

"They must have grown up stuff they want to talk about. Thank you, d'Artagnan!" The pair snatched apples from the bowl at the end of the table, disappearing around a corner. A brown head reappeared sans body, "You'll still be here when we get back, yes?"

"Who?" Aramis didn't even turn around. "Us?"

"Yes, you," two voices howled.

"Unless you're planning an overnight trip somewhere, we're likely to be here when you return. Where are you going?"

"To the stream," the disembodied voices giggled. A door slammed a moment later and silence descended.

"Bayard and Perrin stayed behind?" Catherine asked, looking around for a place to set the potatoes.

"One of the horses is foaling, she began to fret with so many of us hanging about watching," Aramis reported, snagging a piece of pork to roll around the cheese he'd already plundered. "The twins were particularly rambunctious, running about like little heathens, and Juliette is at that stage of increasing where their antics get on her nerves. So we brought them home."

"We can peel those, _maman_." Porthos rose and took the basket of potatoes from her. "S'long as ya don't mind if we use our parrying daggers."

"They're to be boiled, the blood will have been scalded by the time they come out. Who wants to snap peas?"

Athos took the peas, and d'Artagnan's tankard, Aramis and Porthos between them peeled the potatoes and d'Artagnan was told to clear what was left on his plate.

Aramis shared a speaking glance with his lip-reading mother over his shoulder, mouthing his thanks for the change in their youthful companion.

His mother's answering smile was content, but tinged with a sadness Aramis could not quite place.

She sent them forth, not long after, the pile of peeled potatoes having been shoveled into a kettle and hung over the fire too cook. Aramis gave the haunch of venison, slow roasting on a spit, a turn as they left the kitchen and went to hunt down the twins and see what mischief they could get into at the creek.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

The boys had been wild with glee when their elder brother had joined them, his friends in tow. Even Athos had entered into the fun. They'd dammed the creek and a made a little water fall they'd sailed leaf boats over, weighting them with pebbles and using feathers for sails.

The French king had acquired a flotilla of naval vessels, handily defeating the dreaded Spanish armada, sinking half the fleet and sending in a fire ship to destroy the remainder.

The twins had nearly drowned in their ecstasy. Porthos had fished them out gurgling with laughter over their near death experience, then tossed them back in again, much to their squealing delight.

General Athos had declared a truce in the end, claiming there would be no more water in the creek if they did not cease their depredations and the troop had made their merry way back to the house, Porthos piggybacked Archard while d'Artagnan scooped up Alain for an impromptu race; Porthos complaining Archard weighed more than his twin when they lost by a single stride.

They sat down to the evening meal, twenty-eight souls - if one counted Inès and Guifford's baby, Royce - around the seemingly league-long dining table. Only _Père_ Charles was still missing. Six month-old-Royce gurgled happily, a placid, cheerful mite who nestled right in to whatever pair of arms held him. His mother warned, as he reached the first of Aramis' friends, which happened to be d'Artagnan, that the price of holding him was to be covered in baby drool.

"What's this for?" d'Artagnan held up a necklace of amber beads just long enough to slip over the baby's head. A tiny, waving hand grabbed a fistful and stuck it in his mouth.

"That," Guifford said, "he's teething." Inès' husband was a bluff, hearty man whose conversation was usually limited to one or two words responses. Unless the topic turned to land management, then he became loquacious. Athos had hit on the subject by accident the second evening of their stay and spent an enjoyable hour having to contribute very little to the discourse himself.

"Better eat your own dinner," Porthos advised, stealing the baby from d'Artagnan, who looked to be settling in for some serious play time. The Musketeer, crooning, tucked the baby up in one arm, made sure Royce had a good grip on his beads, and returned to shoveling in his food as though it was his last meal. "Everything's delicious, _maman_. Never ate better in m'life."

At the foot of the table, Catherine smile beatifically. There was nothing she enjoyed more than having her entire family under one roof. "Pass Porthos some more of those pork chops, Onfroi. Porthos, I had no idea you had experience with babies."

Porthos chuckled. "There was always babies needin' to be watched over in the Court. Soon as we weren't babies no more, we were watchin' the littler ones."

"Well it looks very natural for you. You should think about some of your own."

Aramis nearly spit out his mouthful of potatoes laughing. "While I'm pleased you've passed your sights on to someone other than me, _maman_ , please don't start needling my friends about their lack of spouses. Some of us are not cut out for marital bliss."

"I beg to differ, you are all of an age where you should begin thinking of settling down and raising families."

d'Artagnan cut a glance toward the end of the table.

"Perhaps you have a few wild oats to sow still, d'Artagnan. But there is a true love waiting for you, you have only to discover her worth," Catherine predicted.

Aramis, lips a slash of color above a tight jaw, regarded his mother with narrowed eyes. "Stop."

Catherine met the look stare for stare, though her lips softened into a twitching smile. "Yes, my dear. Hugues, have you many piglets yet?"

Ingrid's spouse, who was sitting back in his chair with his youngest asleep in his lap - two-year-old Catherine - left off giving his other squirming children the evil eye. "Aye, a dozen or more already, from the old lady. With two more sows due any day now. You three, what do you have to say?"

"Grandmère, we are all done, may we be excused?" the eldest, Jolie, a girl of nine asked politely, including all the cousins in her request.

"Of course. I understand Alain and Archard emptied the creek this afternoon, so there will be no temptation to wander that far this evening, right?

Cherise and Cheney had already joined Jolie and Gillaume, gathering up Henri, Boyden, Boyce and Burcet as they passed their places and were dismissed with nods from their parents. "Yes, grandmère," the children caroled as one entity, towing their uncles Alain and Archard in their wake.

"And be back inside before dark," Catherine called after them. The only answer was the slamming double doors from the foyer.

"I'll go watch them," Amélie volunteered.

"There are enough of them to look after themselves for the night, Amélie," Ingrid waved off her sister's intended escape. "Come help me with dessert. _Maman_ , you stay put, you've been slaving over food all afternoon, let us take care of this." She collected Inès and Josette as well, casting a mischievous glance at their mother. "Aramis, will you come and help us?"

Aramis handed off the baby, whom he'd collected from Porthos for a snuggle of his own, to Athos, who hurriedly set down his wine glass in order to take the small person.

There was suspended beat of unnatural silence around the table as Athos held the baby out at arms' length, the pair inspecting each other balefully. Royce gurgled and Athos, with a half-feigned glare at Aramis, settled the baby carefully in the crook of his arm and began to dangle the beads before the waving hands.

To their credit, no one broke out in guffaws when the _comte_ began cooing baby talk, even allowing Royce to grab his finger to gnaw in place of the amber beads.

Catherine introduced a new topic of conversation as dessert, baked pears drenched in honey brandy, was served, and shortly thereafter Inès rescued the baby, leaving Athos slightly bereft. It had been a strangely pleasant experience. He passed his pears across the table to d'Artagnan, though Porthos, who knew he had little appreciation for sweets, had been eyeing them. Porthos would have no compunction about asking for seconds, d'Artagnan would.

In this strange household, the men hefted the water heating over the fire into the sink, then collected and washed the dirty dishes while the women folk put away the leftover food, what little there was of it, and tided the kitchen, so the whole group moved to parlor at the same time.

Evenings here, whether two or six, or all eleven of the siblings and their spouses and children were present, were spent together in the parlor. This evening, in order to accommodate the numbers, the doors between the music room and parlor were flung open, doubling the space, though the adults were herded toward the large round table that had been dragged into the middle of the space.

An equally large round board had been set in the middle of the table with a bowl of stones sitting beside the space marked 1 on the board. These, the new comers were informed, were the markers they would use to play the game. The stones were a mix of semi-precious stones that had been smoothed and polished into fairly flat pieces, some sparking with bits of mica, others of amethyst and jade and quartz. Not two were a like.

"Do you know the game of Goose," Catherine asked of d'Artagnan and Athos.

"I do," d'Artagnan said instantly.

"Yes, I know it too, though I have not played in more years than I have fingers. And probably toes."

"Then you'll remember it quickly, 'tis not hard." The bowl of markers was passed, each of the sixteen players taking one and passing it on to the person on their left, until the bowl returned to Catherine. "The object of the game is to be the first to get to sixty-three."

The board was elaborately decorated with small carvings of geese, an inn, a well, some dice every so often, a bridge, a maze and a sinister skull, as well as an engraved 63 that had painstaking painted with gold leaf.

"If you land on one of the geese, you may advance by the roll of the dice until you are no longer on a goose. Land on the well and you lose a turn. Land on the inn and you lose two turns."

Aramis snickered at this, glancing at Athos. Porthos caught the joke immediately and hooted too, clapping Athos on the back. "One to get drunk, one to sober up," he chortled.

Athos leaned across the table and plunked his marker down on the small, detailed carving of an inn. "Just leave me there," he said, joining in the general gaiety.

d'Artagnan picked it up, grinning, and tossed it from hand to hand, then flicked it back to Athos. "You're not getting out of this that easily."

"If you land on a bridge, no matter where you are, you must either advance or retreat to space number twelve. If you land on a well, you lose one turn in order to draw up a refreshing drink," Catherine continued, ignoring the teasing. "If you land in prison, you lose one turn, if you land on the maze you must go back to number thirty, and if you land on the skull, you're dead and must return to beginning and start over again."

"Athos, you start." Catherine pitched the six-sided dice in his direction.

He plucked them out of mid-air as though picking a flower, shook them in the cup of his hand twice and tossed them down beside a carven fountain gracing the front of a replica of the d'Aramitz house rising from the middle of the board. A five and a four, advancing Athos directly to number 53, where thirty-two moves later, twice around the circle of players, his marker was borne away as he landed exactly on 63, making him the winner of the game.

"How did you do that?" d'Artagnan demanded, "you rolled exactly what you needed both times!"

"Ask Porthos to teach you. It's all in the flick of the wrist."

"Nooooo." d'Artagnan glanced at Porthos. "Truly?"

"Now you're given' away m'secret, Athos," Porthos chided good naturedly. "Ya haveta have a real affinity for the dice or near perfect control of the angles. Athos has both, he picked it up like he was pro. It takes hours and hours o'practice to learn it otherwise."

Clamors of _teach me, teach me_ , rose like flights of birds around the table, squelched by _Madame_ d'Aramitz from her side of the table. "You three," she pointed at each of the Musketeers, "will use your left hand to roll, going forward. d'Artagnan may continue to use his right."

Athos, in the next round, advanced himself to the inn, even with his left hand, and made sure he sat there for the rest of the game, providing Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan a great deal of hilarity and Perrin the chance to be 'borne away' as the winner.

Porthos landed on the skull in the third game, though he was as good with his left hand as Athos, Aramis advanced past him only to be overtaken by d'Artagnan who got caught on the bridge and had to return to number 12. Josette won that game, and then the fourth and fifth as well, before the children returned and demanded a turn at the board.

The adults were not reluctant to cede the table to the youngsters, drifting off to refill wine glasses and reassemble in various groups around the rooms.

Athos wandered off to tour the music room, stopping to plunk idly at the key board of very fine harpsichord, the tinkling notes of Guédron's _Est-ce Mars_ stilling every conversation. The sudden cessation of the low hum of voices pricked his ears, causing him to glance up self-consciously.

Porthos sauntered over and pulled out the bench. "Didn't know you played. Aramis, get your flute." The big Musketeer was reaching around Athos, whom he'd maneuvered onto the bench before the instrument, to take down a violin lying on its back on the shelf above the harpsichord. "Gimme an A."

Without thinking, Athos touched the note lightly and the violin strings squalled like a baby. Fortunately Royce slept right through it without offering his own contribution.

"Do you know _Susanne un jour_ by Lassus?"

"I don't play." Athos would have risen from the bench, except Porthos' broad hand on his shoulder would not let him.

"Cat's outta the bag now, _monsieur le comte_ , can't very well stuff it back in."

"I haven't played in years, surely there are far better players among you." Athos appealed to the family at large.

"Don't matter if there are."

"Found it!" Aramis emerged from a nearby cupboard waving a flute.

"There's music in the cupboard where you found the flute."

Now the sisters joined in. Josette pulled out piles of sheet music that she and Amélie dumped on the closed lid of the harpsichord and began leafing through.

Inès snatched Athos by the arm when she sat down on the edge of the bench beside him. "No, no, don't leave. Play with me. Find us a duet," she commanded her sisters.

Athos truly had not played in years. The last time he could remember went clear back to his days traveling the continent, with just a manservant as companion. In the St. Petersburg court, he'd found a tiny jewel of a chapel so small it had looked as though it belonged in a child's dollhouse. Small pews, a little prie-dieu, a finely-carved rood screen at the back behind a thimble of an altar; it had even boasted a child-sized baptismal font, perhaps for sprinkling dolls. Tucked away behind it, in its own small room, had been a magnificent harpsichord. He'd practically had to mark his trail with bread crumbs to find it again, but find it he had, and visited it often during his stay there. It had been so far from any of the court activities, he'd had no fear of ever being heard and so had played freely and as often as he could slip away unnoticed.

He was rusty, but the environment was conducive to allowing himself to be coaxed and Inès was patient. Before long their rollicking four-hand duet was joined by Porthos on the violin and Aramis on the flute. d'Artagnan's contribution was grabbing the hand of the nearest daughter, Amélie, and improvising an impromptu dance in time to the music. Hugues bowed before his mother-in-law, Guifford to his sister-in-law, Ingrid, and momentarily, the game table was whisked away, the furniture pushed back to the walls and the rest of the adults and even the children were partnering off to join the fun.

It was into this atmosphere of abandon, ringing with music, laughter and the boundless joy that characterized the entirety of the d'Aramitz family, that the elder d'Aramitz strode, roaring, "What? What? How dare you dance without me in attendance!" He pulled his _enceinte_ daughter-in-law from her chair where she'd been watching the fun longingly. "Something slower, so the _maman_ -to-be may dance as well!"

" _Père! Père_!"

 _Père_ Charles danced Juliette past his middle, flute-playing son, managing a quick one-armed hug without missing a step in the dance. "How dare you come home without warning us! How are we to prepare the proverbial fatted calf for the prodigal son if we have no advance warning? And I know to be home?"

"I had hoped you would be back before we have to leave, _Père_." Aramis passed his flute off to Chace who was dancing past with Inès' daughter, Cherise, who had an immediate attack of the giggles at being traded to Uncle Aramis, who all the girl cousins thought was dreamy.

Ingrid took over the harpsichord, Athos was drafted to partner Josette, and d'Artagnan found himself with an armful of Aramis' mother as Aramis' father cut in on Cherise to partner Aramis. Porthos was relieved of his fiddling duties by Onfroi and was immediately pounced up by Jolie, since Uncle Porthos was a favorite dance partner among the young set, girls and boys alike, for he put them on his big boots and danced them around as if they were the most accomplished partner's in the room.

But there was work to do in the morning, _Père_ Charles wanted to greet Porthos properly and be presented to the new friends Aramis had brought home and the married d'Aramitz's had small children that needed to go to bed. The moon was high in the sky though, when the spontaneous party finally broke up, adults carrying yawning children out to wagons padded with quilts and blankets to snuggle in for the trip home.

"You will not disappear on us without letting us all know when you're leaving," Ingrid informed Aramis as she hugged and kissed him goodnight before collecting the youngest Catherine from the oldest Catherine. "We must do this again, if we can, before you disappear for another year or two."

"I doubt there will be time, we must leave in a day or two, three at the most, to be back on time. If we leave it too late and the rain starts again, we'll all be cashiered. Well, except d'Artagnan who is not commissioned yet. But that would mean he'd never earn one either, so three days at the most."

"We will aim for two nights hence then, a farewell. But René..." she handed Catherine too him so he would follow her to the wagon Hugues was bringing around to the front. "You really cannot stay away this long again. "Letters are not the same. Captain Treville's letter -" she stopped when she felt him tense beside here, and swung around. "You did not know he wrote to the parents after Savoy?"

"No," Aramis said tightly, hugging his small niece before swinging her over the side of the wagon and tucking the sleepy child in between her older siblings, already half dozing beneath the quilts. "They know about Savoy?"

"Yes, it was very bad of you to keep that secret all these years. That new grey in _maman's_ hair? I lay that directly at your door. You've been home thrice in the last five years. Don't make her rely on your sparse and insubstantial letters; come and visit. She's tried to hide it, but she's been worried sick about you." Ingrid rose on tip toe to kiss Aramis on the forehead. "And bring your friends," she whispered with glee. "Josette and Amélie are both in need of spouses and have spurned every young man in the neighborhood. Josette, in particular, might benefit from being married to a spouse whose away a lot of the time," she added impishly, in Aramis' ear.

Aramis rewarded her impudence with a brotherly hip shove. "If Athos thinks I've drug him here to match make, he'll be off like a shot. And d'Artagnan is too young for either of them."

"Either of them would have Porthos in a heartbeat, if he were so inclined," she shot back. "And he's already one of the family."

"Porthos, married?" Aramis laughed aloud. "Not anytime soon."

"He just hasn't met the right woman yet," Ingrid smirked, sounding much like her mother. She accepted Aramis' helping hand to spring up beside her husband on the driver's seat.

"Yes, well, he's already met Josette and Amélie, so apparently neither of them are the right woman."

"Well maybe one of them is and he hasn't had the opportunity to find that out because it's so long between your visits home."

Hugues good-naturedly put a toe in Aramis' shoulder. He'd grown up practically a part of the d'Aramitz family and was well acquainted with _Madame_ d'Aramitz's pride and joy. "We'll be here all night do the two of you not call a truce and agree to disagree. Goodnight, Aramis. Do not make my wife unhappy by skulking away without telling us. She'll make me hunt you down, and you know how that turns out."

"Mmmph," Aramis grumbled, though he was grinning, "you would not find me so easy to tame anymore, Hugues, but you're welcome to try."

"Guifford, Chace - Aramis wants a rematch." Hugues flicked the reins. "Tomorrow, dinner at our place. We'll see just how much you've grown up, little brother." His pair stepped out to a chorus of hooting and hollering from the d'Aramitz sons and Porthos.

"I'll send a note 'round to the women in the morning," Ingrid called back. "We'll cook at our place tomorrow."

The adjoining farms were only a few leagues apart, Ingrid and Inès having married local men. Chace and Juliette had built a home on land Père Charles had given them, and started the small stud farm before Aramis had left to join the army. Which made it ideal for all the to-ing and fro-ing that went on between the families, much to the cousins' joy, who were growing up practically siblings for all the time they spent together.

"Prepare to be humiliated!" Hugues whooped as the night swallowed up their wagon, then Chace and Juliette's, followed by Inès and Guifford.

"What did you just get us into?" Athos asked, slinging an arm around Aarmis' shoulders in a seemingly friendly way, though from Athos this was the equivalent of a threat. "

"Just some friendly wrestling is all, _maman_ or _père_ always referee, so even if does get out of hand - which has been known to happen - no one's seriously injured."

"And how do you intend to keep d'Artagnan - of the healing ribs - out of this fray, _mon ami_?"

"Mmmmmmmm ..." Aramis murmured, watching his mother herd the younger siblings back inside. "Maybe he won't mind just being a spectator this time around."

Athos snorted, an actual verbal sound of high spirits. "Right. Good luck with that."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

"You wrestle where?" Athos stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it around, certain he had not heard correctly.

The morning and early afternoon had been passed hurrying through the day's chores in order to make time for this wrestling tourney. Athos had found himself fending off angry hens even after scattering grain for them as instructed. Either they had not appreciated a stranger stealing their eggs, or he hadn't scattered enough feed. He had several peck marks on the backs of his hands from his egg collecting foray.

Aramis, hanging his shirt over the nearest fence post, glanced over his shoulder. "The mud wallow, it's got the softest landing." He had a bright red score on the right side of his face from one of the cows who had swished her tail hard enough to flail his cheek during milking.

Porthos had a bruised foot from where he'd been stamped by a horse he'd been grooming. Their wanna-be-Musketeer was the only one who'd escaped his chores unscathed. Naturally, d'Artagnan had been quite vocal in his admiration of their various war wounds. Porthos had informed him that in the end, the worms would get d'Artagnan, since the youth's assignment had been picking the ripest vegetables from the early kitchen garden.

"Just to be clear," Athos reiterated, pulling his finger out of his ear, "you wrestle in the pig sty?"

Aramis plopped down on a nearby hay bale to yank off his boots and stockings. "Well, yes, it is the pig sty now that you mention it."

"I think I'll join d'Artagnan in the watcher's gallery." The Musketeer lieutenant dropped the hem of the shirt he'd been about to lift over his head.

"Suit yourself, but it's not like an application of soap and water won't clean you up."

"And next you are going to tell me one gets used to the smell very quickly." Athos raised an eyebrow.

"What smell?" Aramis grinned cheekily. "No truly, Hugues pigs have cleaner stalls than the garrison stables. But if you're put off by a little mud, feel free to keep d'Artagnan company. "

There was a further slight hesitation, but as Aramis had counted on, the little bit of needling unbent the _comte._ "If I regret this, you're going to be the one hearing about it." Athos sat down next to Aramis to remove his boots.

"Then make sure you don't regret it." Aramis bounded up to join the others rolling around in the mud wallow, slicking themselves up for the coming battle. Archard and Alain were perched on the top fence rail on either side of d'Artagnan who was already teaching the youngsters some new forms of cat calling he'd learned from the garrison competitions.

This would not be the first time the Inseparables had been involved in a bit of horseplay, wrestling was a part of the training routine at the garrison and it often descended into the realm of the ridiculous. Porthos was the undisputed holder of the garrison title, though here both Hugues and Guifford were a match for size. The d'Aramitz bothers all tended toward lighter frames, which just meant what they lacked in size they made up for in speed. Aramis was fast as an eel, but so was Athos; their matches tended to end in draws unless one or the other lost concentration, lending the other a bit of an advantage.

"Good job enlisting the aid of your mother to keep d'Artagnan out of this." Athos followed Aramis up and over the ladder stile and into the wallow, grimacing at the mud squishing between his bare toes. He could not recall ever being a devotee of mud.

"She's not particularly happy with us. I got a long lecture last night on our choice of activities this morning. She thought we'd have done better to go fishing or swimming. d'Artagnan came upon us so guilelessly I'm sure he heard her haranguing me and came to my rescue. He does not look too broken up about not participating."

"Smart kid," Athos muttered, still wondering if he should have opted out as well

"Everybody ready?" Alain hollered over the chattering horde.

"Ready!" _Père_ Charles bellowed.

"Your father too?"

"Are you kidding? Normally he's the one instigating it."

"Let the melee begin," Archard shouted, banging a stick against the railing.

With a howl, Porthos launched himself at Guifford, the largest of the brood, and a moment later, there was not a distinguishable male in the bunch, everyone of them muddy from head to toe.

d'Artagnan and the twins salted their cat calls with a few instructive comments as well, as Porthos gained the upper hand with Guifford, though an instant later Chace had Aramis' face an inch from the mud. Followed by wild cheering as Aramis, with a move he'd learned from Porthos, flipped their positions and smacked Chace's face in the mud.

"Go for the knees, Athos!"

"No, no," Archard yelled, "the stomach! Go for the stomach!"

The slimy wallow rather evened the odds, as they were all battling the sucking effects of the mud, having to drag feet free of the muck in order to move. Muddy figures swayed and went down without being touched trying to keep their balance and move at the same time, causing much merriment from the gallery of fence sitters.

d'Artagnan, who had been in no mood for roughhousing anyway, had capitulated without a murmur of discontent when Catherine had forbidden him to participate. She knew her loud, noisy, play-as-hard-as-you-work brood too well. Wrestling in the hog wallow was a no holds barred affair; there was no quarter and no mercy once the wild melee was under way.

Hugues had Aramis pinned in the mud now, though on his back, except Athos plowed a shoulder into Hugues, who went over backwards howling, "No team work in here! No teaming up!"

 _Père_ Charles loosed his hold on Porthos and bounded up. "No rules, Hugues!" he roared, rushing over to grab a bit of leg behind Aramis as Athos and Aramis drug the pig farmer to the other end of his wallow before they let him go.

Perrin and Bayard had thrown up fortifications and were bombarding one another with mud missiles, though Onfroi destroyed Bayard's foxhole, sneaking up on his brother from behind to throw himself bodily atop the youth. "Surrender or die!"

Which brought Perrin dashing across the field of battle to fortify Bayard's rear flank. "We will never surrender! Death can try to take us, but it will find a poor harvest!"

Porthos' booming laugh was cut off in the middle of a ha and every head turned at the loud splat as he fell to Guifford's superior advantage in knowing how to keep his footing in the wallow.

An hour into this madness, the womenfolk and the younger children joined d'Artagnan and the twins in the watcher's gallery. By then, there were no distinguishing features, not even height marked who was who in the churned mud where the taller, heavier gladiators sank to their knees, while the larger number of lighter, swifter contestants had the advantage of not sinking so far. As coated in layers and layers of mud as they were, there wasn't much differentiation in build either.

" _Pépère_!" Henri shouted, clambering up the fence, "p _épère,_ _I'll save you!" Launching himself from the top as several adults, including d'Artagnan tried to grab him._

 _Henri landed lightly and scrambled up to rush to his grandfather who was being dangled by his feet, to batter at the knees of the uncles holding_ _pépère_ _head down and only inches above the mud._

 _d'Artagnan's instinctive snatch sent him too far forward to catch his balance again. He landed on his hands and knees, but he was not light enough to keep his hands under him; they promptly splayed out, planting him face first in the mud. He came up sputtering some of those new curses he'd learned from the company of Musketeers as well._

 _"Acht! Children present, moderate the language!"_

 _d'Artagnan spit out a mouthful of mud before tendering his apologies as he struggled to his feet. He lost the first boot on the first step, the second when he turned to try and retrieve the first boot and floundered rather like a just landed fish trying to reach his lost footgear._

 _Porthos reached him first, dragging him up by the back of his belt, Athos grabbed his boots and Aramis - all of them laughing - escorted him back to the fence._

 _"Are you hurt?" Aramis asked, through his laughter._

 _d'Artagnan, caught between embarrassment and mirth came down on the side of mirth. "I don't think so," he said, spitting more mud. "But I haven't been this filthy since my mother used to let me play in the puddles after rain."_

 _"_ _Pépère_ _," Henri was escorting his best friend in the whole wide world to the stile gate, "aren't you glad I didn't let them drop you on your head? Even though it wouldn't hurt in here. But_ _maman_ _says we can't hang Catherine by her heels even though Jolie and Guillaume do it to me."_

 _"You are my savior, Henri,"_ _Père_ _Charles assented merrily, swinging the youngster up on his shoulders. "Come, everyone to the lake to clean up!_ _Maman,_ _is dinner ready? Should we rush back to the house or can we squeeze out a little more time for play? Henri, give_ _mémère_ _a kiss for me, won't you? She will not let me near enough to kiss her."_

 _Charles leaned forward, dripping mud on the hem of Catherine's oldest dress as she stood on tiptoe to receive her substitute kiss. Henri was only covered in mud from the waist down, though from his perch on his grandfather's shoulders, he invariably dripped all down the front of_ _grandmère's_ _dress._

 _Catherine received the salute to her cheek with all the dignity of a queen, despite the dribble of slime decorating the side of her face._

 _"Oh my dears, you will all have the loveliest complexions after your mud baths, such smooth cheeks, they will all want kissing; oh yes, even you three with whiskers. Smooth as a baby's behind those cheeks will be!" She hefted Royce from_ Inès and headed back down the path toward Ingrid and Hugues house. "Dinner is ready and waiting for you to cook it yourself over the bonfire, so play until you're hungry."

"To the lake then, troops!" _Charles bellowed, moving off across the stable yard at a trot, Henri hanging onto_ _pépère's_ _ears._

 _"Bonfire? We're having a bonfire?!" Boden and Boyce shouted together as Guillaume launched himself airborne, swinging a fist in the air._

 _"Yeah!" Archard and Alain chimed in._

 _"We'll find some clothes for you, d'Artagnan,"_ Amélie promised gaily.

"Towels are already down by the lake. Charles, don't let any of the children drown."

"Do you need help with the bonfire, _maman_?" Alain asked hopefully. "Me 'n Archard would be happy to collect wood for you."

"And miss the fun at the lake? Thank you for offering, but I would not dream of making you work while the others play. No, no, go on, the girls and I will manage, I'm sure."

A dozen male groans met this sally.

"Girls can't build a fire!" Cheney announced dramatically.

Seconded by his cousin, Burcet, "It will die before we can cook _anything_ , _mémère_!"

"Can too!" Cheney's twin declared, planting her fists on her hips. "Girls can do anything boys can do, only we can do it better!"

"Hear, hear," _Père_ Charles inserted wholeheartedly, twirling 'round to grin at his wife. "Cherise has the right of it, boys. The girls can always do it better, they're much smarter than us and have far more stamina! Last one to the water is a monkey!"

Three minutes later the water was teeming as though there'd been a halibut run, slippery bodies gleaming in the last rays of the setting sun spraying across the surface of the lake. Already shadows were stretching out from the woods, fingering the edges of the far shore as dusk pressed forward, silvering the waning light and spangling the mist over the water like a net of diamonds suspended between the blue of the water merging with the blue of the coming night.

"Calvary fight!" someone shouted, and there was instant scramble to find partners. Chace snatched up his niece Cherise, Hugues threw his own daughter, Jolie, up on his shoulders, _Père_ _Charles scrambled to get Henri up again, and Aramis, plowing through the waist deep water, seized Boden and Boyce, ducked under the water and came up with a twin on either shoulder._

 _Howling, Aramis charged his father and Henri, plowing into them so hard all five of the combatants went down, even as the rest of the water-logged crew scrambled to find partners. Every adult had at least one child on their shoulders in seconds and a new battle began, attended by much shrieking and sputtering and shouting._

 _"To the left, d'Artagnan! To the left," his baggage, Burcet, screamed madly, as d'Artagnan floundered from a hit by Athos and Archard ramming them from behind._

 _"One down," Archard bellowed. "Forward Athos! We can taken down_ _Père_ _and Henri!"_

 _"Get 'em, Alain!" Porthos hollered, chugging through water up to his waist toward Cheney and Onfroi rushing at them full tilt. Cheney and Alain, wet hands sliding off glistening skin grappled above as their pillars tried to keep their footing in the soft lake bottom, the men below yelling encouragement._

 _Perrin and Bayard teamed up, and put Gillaume on Perrin's shoulders, so they were an unwieldy tower of three weaving through the combatant's pushing and shoving indiscriminately as the mood took them, giving Athos and Archard a hand with_ _Père_ _and Henri, shoving d'Artagnan off his feet so he and Burcet made a mighty splash and nearly drowning Hugues and Jolie._

 _Gillaume managed to knock Cherise from Chace's shoulders, Bayard kicked in Onfroi's knees so he and Cheney went down in another huge splash._

 _"All's fair in love and war," Bayard yelled, plowing into Athos and Archard so they went under and making for Aramis, Boden and Boyce._

 _"Up, Boden," Aramis commanded, settling Boyce on his shoulders and boosting Boden to scramble up on Boyce's shoulders so they almost matched the height of Bayard, Perrin and Gillaume._

 _And then it was a battle to the death, kicking and screaming and yelling, pushing, shoving and splashing until both towers toppled over into the water, gurgling and grunting as they all came up for air._

 _Bayard, Perrin and Gillaume were declared the winners as_ _Père_ _Charles began herding the crew toward the shore and the lengthening shadows. The lake exodus moved quickly up to the house where they exchanged their wet things for dry clothes, d'Artagnan wearing a pair of Onfroi's britches and a largish shirt borrowed from Hugues._

 _Laundry tubs had been ranged in the kitchen where they were to leave their wet things, miraculously free of the clinging mud of the wallow after the shrewdly suggested visit to the lake, and in ones and twos and fours they found their way out to the huge bonfire set well beyond the house. The flames leapt to the tops of the trees, showering sparks like summer fireflies into the sand pit surrounding the fire ring, the woody tang of the burning wood scenting the air, along with the smell of crisping meat._

 _There were biscuits, and beans simmered in molasses that had been slow cooked over the kitchen fire all day, early spring peas and a whole roasted pig that had obviously been started at dawn. The children had spent part of the afternoon digging a pit at the side of the fire where the last of the fall crop of potatoes had been baked. Someone had been out early fishing as well, there was an entire platter of fish one could skewer on a stick and roast over the fire to his or her own taste - whether practically raw or well-cooked. There were cooked wild duck eggs as well as hen house eggs, raw and cooked carrots and sweet radishes that carried a little bite. An ale keg had been tapped, and several bottles of_ _Père_ _Charles brandy were lined up on the serving table that had been brought out as well. And more of_ _grandmère's_ _lemon concoction for the children, Ingrid and Juliette having contributed the last of their winter-stored lemons to the evening's festivities._

 _Royce and baby Catherine, worn out from a long afternoon with their cousins, were tucked up safely in blankets sound asleep atop another blanket set back from the fire. And one by one, the younger ones, their appetites sated, cuddled up to the little ones and drifted off as well. The stars were barely lighting their evening lamps before the blanket was covered with small, warm bodies piled together like puppies after play._

 _Conversation around the fire was desultory. The day had started early and been a busy one for everyone; even the adults were pleasantly fatigued._

 _Aramis, sitting next to his father, his second or third, or perhaps fourth, mug of honey brandy mostly gone, nudged Charles' shoulder. "You really should think about expanding your export business to Paris,_ _père,_ _you'd make a fortune."_

 _Aramis' father turned his head to smile at his middle son. "I have fortune already, my son." He waved his own goblet expansively around the fire. "If you do recognize it, then you are a blind man. The only reason I would go to Paris would be to keep an eye on you and report back to your mother. She worries for you,_ René. You are her only chick whose truly flown the nest."

"I know, but I could no more have been a horse breeder or a farmer than Hugues could be a Musketeer."

"Your mother knows that. She still worries. What happened before I arrived home? There is a new strain in her eyes I have not seen before."

Aramis had noticed it too, it had not been there on their arrival, but no amount of chivvying on his part had induced her to share the close held concern. "I don't know." Though he had a suspicion. Ingrid's disclosure that his mother knew of Savoy should not have surprised him; even without Treville's letter, his mother would have known about Savoy, if not the details, then the broad strokes of the event. There were things his mother just _knew_ , there was no explanation for it.

Well, there was, but Aramis did not want to even think about the consequences of labeling his mother's witchy ability to discern things others could not. Just a few nights ago she had as good as announced that d'Artagnan's future spouse was just waiting for him to recognize her. And while it could have been a sweeping statement about any man hoping to find a wife someday, Aramis had known his mother's statement had been intentional, she'd been seed planting. He'd also known his young and impressionable cohort was fertile soil.

He hadn't made it home, intentionally, for nearly two years after Savoy and he'd made sure to take Porthos with him on all three of his visits home since that mission gone so unaccountably wrong. There was a part of him, he knew with his mother's unerring insight, that did not want to let go of the memory, for fear that in relegating the massacre to something that had happened in the distant past, he dishonored his lost bothers. Not even his mother's infallible healing touch could mend the despair that night had stamped into his soul, it was as much a part of him now as his breath.

"You will talk to her before you leave," his father said implacably.

Aramis was well aware he'd just been issued an order and in the d'Aramitz family, pére's word was unquestioned law. The brandy suddenly lost its potency. He rose and brushed off the seat of his britches. Might as well get it over with. Moving around the outside of the circle, he stopped behind his mother, leaned down and whispered for her ears alone, "Will you take a walk with me?"

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

The deep fragrance of the white pines along the lake was nearly as intoxicating as his father's brandy, Aramis drew in a deep breath, savoring the scent. The sap must be running high from the recent rains for it to be so strong.

"You've always loved the smell of the trees, from the time you were a tiny child you noticed it." Catherine patted the arm beneath her hand. "They are telling you they are in good health tonight."

"I have missed them," Aramis admitted. "Have you ever tried to distill their perfume?"

"Oh no, to trap it in a bottle would be wrong. It is a scent only nature can contrive and one must be outdoors beneath the sun or the moon to smell the magic."

" _Maman_ ," Aramis chided, before he could stop himself. He knew she felt the sigh he tried to squelch. "I'm sorry, I know it is no less in your nature to be what you are than it is in mine to be a soldier."

"Is that why you invited me to stroll with you beneath the trees?"

"Is that why you're upset?" Aramis countered swiftly.

"Because I walk beneath the trees with my favorite son? Of course not!"

"You're changing the subject. And you say that to every one of us."

"I do, but I mean it when it when I say it to you." Catherine stopped impulsively, hands outstretched as she stepped forward and turned in front of her tall, handsome son. "I do not mean to have favorites, but I cannot help myself. Why, after five children, did God enlarge the space in my heart he created just for you? " He'd taken her hands, but she'd stretched to the insides of his elbows so their forearms were locked as she raised her chin to study his face. "You could be Chace or Onfroi's twin - though your experiences have aged you faster than your brothers - so it is not looks that sets you apart. Perhaps it is as your father says so often - you are the only one who does not call upon me to practice Solomon's wisdom in settling squabbles or adjudicating quarrels any more. You are the only one who has made a life beyond the borders of our community. The only one I cannot lay hands on if I need a hug or a kiss or just a familiar face."

The tenderness of her smile stole his breath for a moment and then she disengaged a hand to reach up and brush a curl back behind the shell of his ear.

Aramis tipped forward to rest his forehead against hers, he did not have to lean down much. "I miss you too. Every day." He extracted his other arm and slipped both around his mother's shoulders, drawing her into his chest so he held her within the circle of his arms.

Her head dropped to his shoulder and her arms crept around his waist. "Am I the reason your visits have been so few and far between since Captain Tréville recruited you and Porthos for the king's Musketeers?"

Aramis opened his mouth to flatly deny any such thing. And closed it again. Then attempted a different tack, " _Maman_ ..." that went nowhere as well.

"I am sorry you are so ashamed of me, if you had only told me..."

"Ashamed?!" Aramis practically staggered, stepping back involuntarily so he held her at arm's length. "Ashamed of you, _maman_? What would possibly make you think that?" That strange look his father had remarked, and Aramis had seen as well, abruptly gained meaning. "You think I'm ashamed because you're a witch?!"

"d'Artagnan -"

"d'Artagnan!" he interrupted with a growl. "What does d'Artagnan have to do with this? He knows nothing of your abilities."

Catherine closed her eyes and waited.

"I'm sorry," Aramis repeated, letting her go to run a hand through his hair. "I didn't let you finish."

One eye opened and a dark eyebrow winged upward. "d'Artagnan mentioned in passing that you may have had to oversee - I will not call it justice if you have had to be involved in witch hunts - but questioning at least, perhaps even had to carry out sentencing under questionable circumstances."

Aramis growled again. "d'Artagnan has been with us barely more than a month, _maman_. In that time we've tracked down his father's murderer, picked up a priest in Calais and delivered him back to Paris and retrieved the contents of the royal vault from a would-be-insurrectionist-turned-jewel-thief. He knows nothing of what we do on a regular basis."

The other eye opened. "Then you have not been involved in any cases where someone has been accused of witchery?"

Aramis opened and closed his mouth twice more before he clamped his jaw shut. "Yes, I have been involved in some cases of accusation," he ground out from between clenched teeth. "Yes, _maman_ , it terrifies me that you broadcast your abilities as though you were sowing seed. But that is not what kept me from home!" He threw his head back no sooner had the words escaped his lips, recognizing the trap only after it had been sprung.

She did not pounce as he expected; his mother had never been one to shy away from confrontation. Instead she stepped forward, turned beside him again, and wound her arm though his, drawing him forward so they continued their stroll upon the carpet of needles beneath the aromatic trees. "It is not shame, then, but fright that wags your tongue when you try to shush me," she said thoughtfully. "I cannot fault you for that, though, my dearest boy, you are right, I can no more change what I am than a leopard can change its spots."

Aramis lifted their entwined arms and kissed the back of her hand. "I would not want you too, but it does worry me a great deal. We were able to prove the allegations false in one instance, a jealous neighbor who thought to get himself a piece of property at no cost."

"And the others?" Her Musketeer son did not immediately answer and Catherine lifted and kissed the back of his knuckles. "Your silence is answer enough, you do not have to recount the experience."

"There was only on other," he said quietly. "We could not prevail."

"Would it ease your mind to know that I have seen my end and know that I will pass into our heavenly Father's arms amidst my children, at a ripe old age?"

"It would," Aramis' lips twitched, "if I knew you were telling me the truth."

Catherine giggled at that, like a young girl, and patted his arm again. "You are too smart for you own good. I'm sure I've told you before, it is rarely given to us to know our own end, but I _can_ tell you that, should I not die in my sleep, I will go singing, for I am perfect friends with our Father. He has listened patiently to my beseeching on your behalf for years now. I have no doubt when we meet face to face, His first words will be of you."

"I would not have you be a martyr, _maman_."

"Every innocent who dies at the hands of another is a martyr, my dear René. Sufferers do not have to be religious figures, everyone of your Musketeer friends slaughtered in their sleep died a martyr."

The jaws of the trap clamped shut.

"You may be sure God knows your friend Marsac's name almost as well as yours, as he features in my every prayer of thanksgiving. I pray for his soul as well, and that he will find peace." Catherine glanced up at her tight jawed son. "I hope you do not judge him too harshly."

Aramis' breath shuddered through him like the wind chasing a new moon. No answer was required, which was good, since he had none. He tried not to think of Marsac ... or that night ... or the hell that had been his recovery. Conquering the demons loosed by the evil haunting that mission had been a long and exhausting battle; the mental war overshadowing every step of his physical recovery.

"My knees were raw by the time I knew you would recover ... but you did not come home."

"I could not," he said raggedly. "Captain Tréville came with Porthos as soon as they knew I had ... survived. They both wanted me to go home ... but _maman_ , for weeks I could not bear to be far from the spot."

The silence between them was neither heavy nor uncomfortable. The night wrapped around them like a benediction of peace. It had been five years since Savoy, the memories no longer flayed like a cat o' nine tails.

"I could not leave until they were all gone."

The swish of Catherine's dress against the forest floor died away, her feet stopped as if they were dazed and her free hand came up to her throat. "Oh." She stood perfectly still for several long seconds hearing his words echo in her mind as silent tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. "I had no idea. Was that the first you knew?"

"Yes." Aramis sucked in air again, though it had nothing to do with the pungent scent of the forest. "It was so overwhelming at first and I could not explain to Porthos, who was insistent that we must come home or return to the garrison, so I feigned illness every time he tried to make me leave my bed. Which wasn't hard for awhile," he added almost as an aside. "Do you remember Thibault? I wrote you about him; he was the boy who played the fife? He kept calling and calling for me ... I could hear him so clearly ... I knew I could not leave ... until he'd found his ...way ... over." He drew the back of his sleeve across his eyes, though tears were like diamonds to his mother, in fact she preferred them to any precious jewels that might be strewn across her lap. "At the time, I had no notion how to help him, all I could do was stay nearby."

Her son did not need her tears, he needed her strength, she made certain they remained silent though they poured down her face in rivers.

"It was the only thing I could think of." Aramis unwound their arms and prowled away to seat himself on an ancient tree stump honed flat by the passage of nature and time. He patted the place beside him. "It was not that I did not want to come home, I could not. By the time Thibault ... crossed over ... I was well enough to travel and by the time we reached the garrison, I was recovered enough to resume light duty. Tréville would still have sent me home, but by then I needed space to assimilate all that had happened ... and all I'd learned about myself. As much as I love you, _maman_ , as much as you're my favorite mother," he put an arm around her as she arranged her skirts to sit beside him, "you would have muddied the waters. I needed to wade through them on my own before I could talk to you about this."

Catherine absorbed this for a moment, coming to the realization that he did not need her strength either. He had grown into a man of wisdom, strength and courage all his own. "Is it such a burden, then?" she asked, pulling up her knees to wrap her arms around them.

Aramis drew her into the circle of his arm again. "I think I've made peace with it. My experience, at least from what I know of yours, and you've have never been backwards in sharing it with the neighborhood," he laughed a little, then sobered, "my experience has been ... different. I think it's more centered around healing than anything else. I don't have visions or premonitions, but I have found that there are things I am instinctively aware of about a patient, without knowing how I know it. Do you know what I mean? I think you have this, too," Aramis shrugged a bit abashedly, "perhaps this is what I inherited ... and I have since learned the rudiments of easing the passage ... over ... if needed."

"Allow me a moment of awe ... I am ..." Catherine swallowed past the lump in her throat, "I am so grateful to know not only that you have this legacy of me, but that you have learned to exercise it in such a practical, beneficial manner. I am so proud of you, René. So very proud." No wonder the life chord that bound her to this child manifested so strongly, none other of her pragmatic brood had an ounce of 'the sight'.

"Ahhhh _mére_ , I'm sorry I have not shared this before. It was just so ... unexpected ... and manifested - I thought - at the worst possible time. I can see, now, that it could not have appeared at a better time, but it was so uncomfortable and so foreign. I felt like I had lain down to sleep and woken in someone else's life."

"If I had only known..." Catherine's sigh was a diffident spring breeze, sad and chilly. "I might have been able to prepare you, but I saw no signs of it in any of you. I never occurred to me to even attempt to nurture it in any of my children. I was the first in generations, though there were stories still, and it came to me while I was a very young child. My mother hid it as well as she could and bade me hide it too, but ... the gift does not allow itself to be hidden forever."

"No," Aramis agreed, "I suppose not. But honestly," he administered an admonitory squeeze, "must you tell everyone? _Maman_ , you do not need to hide your light under a bushel, but you don't have to set it on a hill for the whole world to see either."

Catherine flirted a shoulder. "In our little village there is no need to live in darkness anymore, I want all to know my aid is freely offered and from whence it comes that they may make informed decisions."

Aramis sighed his frustration. "You never know when someone might turn on you in spite."

"You're right, one never knows. But I could not live with myself if I lived my life in fear of what 'might happen'. And I should think you would be well aware of that now, having grown into your own manifestation." She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder again. "Would you give it back if you had the chance?"

"No," he said promptly. And laughed once more, joyfully this time. In his struggles to come to terms with the appearance of his own gift, he'd forgotten his mother's _joie de vivre_. He had inherited her insatiable appetite for living large as well, but he'd forgotten that too.

Beyond the wide belt of trees, the lake lapped gently at the sandy shore. Above, the man in the moon shone down, turning the night iridescent with his pale glow. Behind, sparks exploded like miniature fireworks over the distant bonfire.

"Oh, _maman_ , I have missed you so! You are the only one who can make me dance and mourn at the same time."

"Well then," Catherine pushed off her knees to rise, shivering a little at the loss of her son's warmth, "you should come home more often."

"Are you cold?" Aramis rose immediately, shrugging out of his jacket to drape it around her shoulders. "Have we shared enough secrets for this night?"

"You have more?" she asked interestedly, shooting him a curious look.

"No, but I'm sure you do." Aramis held out his arm, Catherine slipped her hand through his elbow and together, in complete accord, they turned to stroll back to the bonfire.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Athos lay on his back watching the fire cast shadows dance across the ceiling of the bed chamber. d'Artagnan and Porthos were both asleep, though Aramis was not in his bed, nor even in the room.

 _We really must consider leaving_ , Athos thought silently, surprising himself with an unexpected sigh. He had been a Muskteer for the last three years. Before that he'd been a traveler. And before that, a landowner. He had not experienced this kind of freedom since he'd inherited the title at the age of fourteen. Here he was just Athos, Aramis' friend; there were no expectations, no duties to discharge, no one expecting him to solve their problems or answer their questions, no weighty responsibilities requiring his immediate attention.

With twenty-nine souls in and out of the house constantly, all right twenty-eight if one discounted the baby, there had been innumerable times he'd sought solitude, but Aramis' preemptive tour of the best places to find it had solved the problem before it had presented itself.

Athos found himself contemplating admitting that he had enjoyed his time here far more than then he'd expected. Not that he was required to tell anyone, but the peace of the week had been working a sort of curative balm into his soul, one he would have denied needing with his last breath a week ago. And yet, it had worked its magic so effectively he was laying here dreading having to prod Aramis to leave.

Who appeared next to the bed as if conjured by his thoughts. Athos thought he must have fallen asleep between blinks.

Their marksman, eyes twinkling, put a finger to his lips, motioning Athos up. He woke d'Artagnan and Porthos as well, passing out boots, but shushing the sleepy questions from d'Artagnan and whispering that they needed to carry them, not put on them on.

"We're going to the springs, but we have to take the boys if we wake them, so shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," Aramis whispered. "It's a bit cool, but it's not far, we'll be fine in just shirt sleeves, no need to dress completely."

Porthos' jaw snapped shut on a yawn at this pronouncement. "Springs," he echoed, bounding up as though he'd already had a full night's sleep.

d'Artagnan, however, had not yet acquired the soldier's ability to wake instantly, nor the knack of following orders without question. "Middleofthenight," he slurred in a mumble, pulling the covers over his head as he turned over and curled into a ball. "Leaveme'lone."

"Your choice," Aramis whispered, "I'm not going to make you come if you don't want to, but the hot springs are not to be missed on a night like tonight."

Their baby Musketeer chuffed his annoyance. "Goodgowithoutme."

"Come on," Porthos muttered, stripping the blanket and sheet from over the youth. "I promise you won't regret it."

"Ath-"

Porthos stifled the plaintive cry with a hand over d'Artagnan's mouth. "Hush now, we don' wanna be haul'n along the youngun's, 'n I'm bettin' you don' wanna be one of 'em." He tugged the Gascon up by a shoulder. "You always this hard to wake?"

d'Artagnan blinked owlishly. "What? What are we doing?"

The trio of Musketeers exchanged laughing looks.

"Gotta hone _those_ instincts," Porthos said softly, grinning as he easily ducked a swat d'Artagnan aimed at his head.

A very few minutes later, boots in hands, they were tiptoeing stealthily through the dark, silent house, Porthos towing their still reluctant youthful companion.

"Oww" d'Artagnan hissed, his toes making violent contact with Porthos' heels. "Why do I have to go?"

"Go back to bed then, if'n ya want." Porthos let him go. "But don't be whinin' in the morning that we left you outta the fun."

Athos grabbed for a vase as a gate-legged table took the brunt of d'Artagnan's abrupt about face. "Owwww!"

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

" _Quiet_!"

Athos set the vase back down on the table very carefully, his vision not quite adapted to the almost complete darkness of the hallway. He felt d'Artagnan waver though, and took the youth by the arm, guiding him around the table. " Come on, you know you'll regret missing the adventure if you go back to bed."

"Athos?" Like a sleepy child, d'Artagnan rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. "What are we doing in the hall?"

"Sneaking out of the house." Athos made a mental note to remember waking d'Artagnan took more than getting him on his feet.

"Wha...t?"

"Shhhhhh, you have to sneak quietly or it's not a very good sneak."

"Why are we sneaking out of the house at this hour of the night?"

Athos grinned in the darkness. "It's only a couple of hours past dark. You fell asleep early."

"I did?"

"Hush, now, or we'll have the twins trying to sneak out with us and _Madame_ Catherine will be plating our heads à la John the Baptist."

d'Artagnan shivered as Aramis pushed open the heavy front door and a freshening breeze circulated through the stuffy entrance hall. He stopped again, now that he was truly awake. "What are we doing?"

Muted moonlight flooded the open doorway. Athos shrugged, "Something about springs is all I know and Aramis doesn't want to take the twins."

"Come on," the scion of the house chivvied in an impatient whisper.

d'Artagnan, with a longing glance over his shoulder for the comfort of his warm bed upstairs, huffed a sigh and followed Athos out the door.

Porthos closed it softly behind them.

Aramis had already collected their horses from where he'd left them tethered to the low hedge surrounding the terraced side gardens. Passing out reins, he bade them walk their mounts until he gave the signal and mounted with a springing leap.

Half a league from the house he increased the pressure of his knees slightly and heard the others come to a trot as well. In the distance an owl hooted, the sound carrying low and eerie through the moonlit darkness, the jingle of bridles and lope of hooves a counter melody to the symphony of night sounds.

Athos, though he'd become a creature of the night since the fateful day he'd found his brother dead on the parlor floor, his wife standing over him with a bloody knife in her hand, was rarely sober enough to appreciate the distinctive differences moonlight brought out. Though, to be fair, the connotations of night in the city were inequitably different from night in the country.

Here the scent of the trees mingled with air so crisp and fresh great lungfuls of it tended to make one a bit heady.

He sat easy in the saddle, reins loose in one hand, the other resting on his thigh as he let his horse canter in the wake of Aramis'. The stars overhead had been broadcast by a munificent hand, carpeting the dark blue velvet sky as though someone had poured out buckets and buckets of brilliants, nearly casting the light of the moon as shade so magnificent was their glory.

Crickets carried the bass line with their distinctive whirring, tree frogs chirruping love songs kept the tempo and a loon joined in harmony with another owl, it's long, lonely cry carrying even further than the owl's drawn out whoooooooooooooooooo. A dog barked and was answered by a singular howl, followed by the sound of a baying pack.

"Wolves?" d'Artagnan reached for the musket they all carried at the front of their saddles, only to come up empty. Aramis had not armed them when he'd saddled their horses.

"Sound travels a long distance at night, there are wolves, but they live in the foothills leagues beyond Guifford and Inès," the marksman called back over his shoulder. Their farm was the furthest west of the family's holdings. From their second story windows, one could see mountains in the far distance. "The hot springs are down over the next rise."

They crested the ascent, checking their horses by unspoken consent as the view came into sight.

"Sweet holy Mother," Aramis breathed. "Pére talks about seeing this as a child," he whispered reverently.

Awestruck, they sat their mounts drinking in the glory of the show the universe was putting on.

Porthos shifted in the saddle after a bit, easing his restless mount. "If that don't make ya believe in the hereafter, I dunno what would."

"It was a French astronomer, Pierre Gassendi, who named the phenomena aurora borealis, after the Roman goddess of dawn," Athos remarked softly. "It's rare to see them at this latitude."

d'Artagnan sat staring spell bound at the shimmering ribbons of light dancing across the sky. "What is it?"

"No one knows for certain. The ancient Greeks described them as magnetic fluctuations. The Norse believe the aurora can be seen when the Valkyrior ride forth on their errands, their armour sheds a flickering light that flashes up over the northern skies."

"Valkryrior?" d'Artagnan asked, his gaze glued to the horizon above the distant hills.

"Mythical warlike virgins mounted on horses and armed with helmets and spears. They choose who dies in battle," Athos replied dryly.

"Remind me to give'm a wide birth next time we're in battle," Porthos murmured.

"We can see this from the hot springs," Aramis said, clicking to his mount to move forward again. "There is a path, and for the horses sake, we need to stay on it."

d'Artagnan was last to fall into line, so entranced was he by the display. He shook himself free of the spell and reined his horse after Athos', already picking its way down the deceptively sloping hill. It took another twenty minutes to reach the bottom.

"There is another hot spring on the far end." Aramis gathered his reins in one hand to point northwest. "It's nicer, but it's a day's ride to get there. When we used to go, we always camped overnight. Though mostly we made do with this one." Dismounting, he tethered his horse to a nibble-able bush, gesturing his companions to do the same, then started stripping off his clothes. "You might want to keep your boots on," he warned, as he pulled his own back on, "it's not far, but the trail becomes a bit rocky from here down."

In short order they were clambering down the stony path, lining up their boots on a stone shelf and following Aramis into the steaming water.

There was a blissful sigh from Athos as he found a convenient rock to sit on and sank chin deep in the lovely warmth.

"Glad you came now?" Aramis asked their baby Musketeer.

d'Artagnan's brilliant grin flashed sheepishly. "Yeah, thanks for dragging me out of bed." He turned so he could rest his elbows on the wide ledge behind him and still watch the show. "I hope someone in house sees this and wakes the others, if they can even see it from the house."

"Maybe the roof," Porthos suggested. "Worth riding back to tell 'em? I'd do it for _m_ _é_ _re_."

"She was awake when we left. Likely she's well aware of the phenomenon. Nature speaks to her differently from the rest of us. If they can see it, she'll have woken the rest."

d'Artagnan's sable head turned sharply. "Did I get you in trouble?"

Aramis cocked his chin. "Nooo, not really. But what _did_ you tell her?"

"Your mother made some remark about you getting irritated with her when she talks about her gifts. I just said maybe it was because as a Musketeer, you had to enforce the king's justice and maybe you'd been involved in cases where there were accusations of bewitchment or witchcraft. It was the only reason that came to mind immediately. I couldn't imagine you were ashamed of her."

"I am not ashamed of my mother." Aramis splashed water at the Gascon, who turned his head to avoid it.

"She thought you were," d'Artagnan replied, turning his gaze back to the spectacular sky as colors unfurled like ribbons on a May pole, swirling together turquoise and white then flowing into a brilliant pink.

Aramis had no refutation for that. "Did she tell you she thought I was ashamed of her?"

"No, she said you worried for her."

"Then how did you know she thought I was ashamed of her?"

d'Artagnan was caught by the strange note of curiosity in Aramis' voice. "I ..." he began. "I don't know." He was no more an advocate of feelings then Athos, but he'd heard something in Catherine's voice, or maybe seen it in her eyes, and felt the brush of her pain across his own; though perhaps she had _allowed_ him a glimpse of her own suffering. Had she let him sense it because a shared distress eased the ache of the burden? "Why?"

Aramis stretched his neck, the sound of it popping echoing inside the enclosure of the small pool. "Because she did think I was ashamed of her, though that was easily resolved."

"I'm sorry."

"Need me to work on that for ya?" Porthos offered, stretching out a lazy hand to encircle Aramis' neck.

"Not your fault. Mmmm ... feels good." Aramis leaned into the massage. "In truth, it provided an opportunity for us to talk. So I suppose I should be thanking you." He rolled his neck gratefully.

"Is there a line?" Athos inquired, head propped against the ledge of rock behind him. "I'm in it if there is." He was watching the sky too, though his gaze cut as often to observe the Gascon's enchantment with the celestial sphere. There was something about d'Artagnan's unreserved openness to new experiences that both attracted and repelled Athos' afflicted heart.

For God's sake, they'd sent the kid into a duel, then abandoned him to be captured and imprisoned and he'd shown not a flicker of fear. This after they'd dragged him to Calais and back on horseback with a pair of badly bruised ribs and a lung infection. A journey on which they'd found themselves outnumbered four to one in a running gun battle that had ended in a _mêlée_ of hand to hand combat in the middle of the road. d'Artagnan had been in the center of the fray, though he'd collapsed like an empty sack of flour before they'd realized he'd been hurt again.

And here he was drinking in the panorama of the night sky like a child. The Gascon defied expectations. And terrified Athos in the process.

"Oh God, yes, right in that spot ... aahhhh ... ow ow ow ... no! Don't stop!"

"Turn around. Ya gonna make that much noise I oughta do it right." Porthos scooted over behind Aramis, digging his thumbs deep into that tender spot just at the base of the neck before caterpillaring his fingers down and then up the length of spine, then closing his large hands over the broad shoulders to massage away the tightness coiled in those muscles.

"I woulda thought that talk with your mother would have eased some of this," Porthos muttered, finishing by ducking Aramis' head under the water.

Aramis came up sputtering and returned the favor. Porthos just laughed and moved behind Athos, who, in a matter of minutes, was boneless as a jelly fish and nearly asleep.

"Gonna drown," he said and slid under the water.

d'Artagnan, panicked, snatched at bare, wet skin. "Not funny," he informed his mentor grumpily when Athos surfaced three feet away, floating on his back.

"He swims like an otter," Aramis informed their youthful companion. "He couldn't drown if he tried."

"Want I should do you too?" Porthos offered, crossing the pool to come up behind d'Artagnan, who was sitting on a rock with his knees pulled up to his chest. "Move back here to this shelf and put yer feet down. Ya need to be steady enough that yer not gonna slide around."

d'Artagnan, already unsure about this bathing together situation, was even less sure about a large male laying hands anywhere on his person. But even Athos had succumbed to the persuasion of Porthos' palms so he settled himself more securely with his fingers closed around the rim of rock Porthos had pulled him onto and waited.

The last of the tension he'd hauled along from home drained away as Porthos' prodigious digits found and unfurled every knotted muscle, teased out all the tightness between sinew and bone, soothing away even the thought of tautness.

"You were a mite tight, _monsieur_ ," Porthos said, patting their puppy on the head. "No need to be, just let me know and I can fix that right up for ya. No need to be in pain."

"Where you learn to do that?" d'Artagnan had not been so relaxed since before his father had begun preparations for the trip to Paris.

"An ole' woman at the Court taught me." Porthos ducked under the water. "Comes in handy now an again," he said as he came up shaking his head so water flew like raindrops.

"Who does it for you?"

"I can do if for m'self if necessary." The big Musketeer demonstrated, digging his thumbs into the column of his own neck.

"Not clear down your back," d'Artagnan noted.

"Nah, but then I don' carry tension like Aramis and Athos do. You grow up mean 'n hard in the Court, so most stuff rolls off ya like water off a duck." Porthos shook his head again, his hearty laugh booming across the water as a whorl of bright green undulated across the vault of heaven.

"Will you teach me?"

"Sure," Porthos agreed readily, pleased as punch to be asked.

"It's a useful skill to acquire," Aramis said lazily. "d'Artagnan, what happened between you and the parish priest?"

"What do you mean what happened? Nothing happened."

Aramis, who'd joined Athos floating on his back, flipped over and swam the two strokes necessary to return to the ledge. "Did he accuse you of being instrumental in your father's death?"

"Not you too." The Gascon edged backwards, meeting the sharp rim of the pool.

Clever, clever _maman_. "We've had little time to talk about your loss, what with trying to get Athos cleared of the charges against him and you cleared of the charges against you, not to mention your stint as an insurrectionist and prison breaker." Aramis scooted over next to d'Artagnan. "It only occurred to me after the service, that perhaps you've been feeling guilty about the circumstances surrounding your father's death."

"Look!" Athos dropped his feet to the mucky bottom and planted them so he could tilt his head back and watch as an iridescent band of bright blue wove itself sinuously through a strand of green that changed to an inky purple, then faded into pink again. "I've never seen anything more beautiful," he murmured, the awe in his voice causing Aramis and Porthos to exchange one of those speaking glances they so often shared.

d'Artagnan, glancing at Athos, was on the receiving end of an equally chatty glance.

Athos raised an eyebrow. "I wonder; would Grandier have agreed with your father's friend?"

"Not if the old coot was accusing you of murder most foul," Aramis asserted.

d'Artagnan was silent for a moment. His gaze tracked each of these new brothers individually, skating past full eye contact but not without recognizing both the regard and the compassion they were extending. Not only had he been denied any kind of comfort in the one place where he might have expected to look for it, he had been accused, tried and condemned without recourse to defense; judged guilty for desiring a life other than the one his father had chosen.

The realization stirred the banked embers of that righteous indignation that was so much a part of his tilting at windmills in the cause of justice. If he wanted justice for himself, it was up to him to take the next step forward and accept the commitment on offer. No one else could free him from the prison of his own despair, not even Father Armitage.

"No, Father Grandier would not have agreed with Father Armitage," d'Artagnan said thoughtfully. "It's a wonder they both practiced the same religion."

Athos refrained from rolling his eyes. He had not found the Lupic parish priest to be the least inclined toward the kind of spirituality Grandier had espoused. Grandier had been connected on some esoteric plane Athos could never hope to reach, but had employed those connections to the benefit of everyone he encountered ... well, perhaps not the skulking brute he had skewered on their behalf during the skirmish at the inn. But everyone else, including half a dozen armed Red Guards who'd been waiting to escort him to the Bastille when they'd ridden into the garrison courtyard.

Athos blinked away the contrasting memories. "Wll, since that's settled, gentlemen, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we need to be leaving in the next day or two if we don't want to be cashiered."

Aramis nodded. "It's why I wanted to come out here tonight. Another night at the most and we need to be on our way."

"Better if we left tomorrow afternoon and got a piece down the road before dark," Porthos recommended. "I'm the last one wants to leave, but we do have duties and responsibilities. And you," he cuffed d'Artagnan gently, "gotta be about earning that pauldron."

"Yeah, what's that going to take? Does the king award pauldron's post humorously? Because if nearly getting blown to kingdom come while on the king's business didn't do it, what will?"

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

" _Maman_ ," Aramis began as Catherine separated him from the crowd spilling out onto the porch.

"You will humor me in this," his mother commanded, drawing him back into the house.

The horses were saddled, provisions for the road stowed away, profuse gratitude and thanks repeated, goodbyes mostly said, the road beckoning. At least one of them was anxious to be off.

d'Artagnan was already on his horse. Apparently Porthos' comment had lit a fire under the youth. He was eager to be back in Paris working on earning that pauldron. He had, however, hugged everyone at least twice, including Athos, under the guise of passing out hugs without really knowing who he was hugging. Under normal circumstances, Athos would have skewered the youth. However, d'Artagnan had not been the only one to hug the _comte_.

Their lieutenant, _much_ to Aramis' surprise, had born up manfully under the onslaught, though he had disappeared into the side gardens with _Pére_ Charles. Aramis, climbing the stairs behind his mother, wondered if the pair might be transacting business involving a Bayonne brandy. The de la Fère holdings included extensive shipping operations. For the most part, Athos let the estate and its holdings run themselves, though occasionally his man of business showed up at the garrison, mincing as though stepping in horseshit even when there were no steaming piles decorating the courtyard.

Aramis ducked under the low lintel of the door to the attic stairs. "What does _p_ _è_ _re_ want with Athos?"

"Business of course." Even Catherine had to duck as she opened the door to her work space. "He is obsessed with making a name for himself among the vintners."

"What does he think Athos can do for him?"

"Connections among the nobility."

Aramis stifled a snort. "He's barking up the wrong tree there. _If_ Athos ever had connections, he has not maintained them. He's a Musketeer through and through."

"So d'Artagnan said." Catherine picked up the leather bag she had packed and turned to her son. "I've been working on this since your last visit home." She caressed the bag with a soft smile. "There are some things in here that will require careful handling, potions and cures commensurate with your new abilities. I've included written instructions, but you must also spend time studying and working with the ingredients in order to understand their properties and to know how they will best suit a patient."

Aramis nearly dropped it when she put it into the keeping of his hands. It's weight had not appeared so great in his mother's hands. He lifted it as if to inspect the contents, then thought better of it. It would take too much time. "Did you fill it with rocks?"

Catherine smiled. "I've included a box of crystals and stones in a special compartment inside. They, too, will require time and experimentation before you use them on patients. I'm sure Porthos will allow you to practice on him, perhaps even d'Artagnan; the _comte_ will likely require a bit of stealth." She reached behind to scoop up a trio of colored rocks from the work counter. "These I have worked with already," she said matter-of-factly, holding out a cool, blue stone shaped like a tear and threaded through the top with a leather string. "This is lapis lazuli, it is for you. Keep it about your person at all times; the more you wear it, the more it will adapt itself to your gifts. Eventually, if you will allow it to, you may find that it helps to clarify things for you, both personally and perhaps, in time, it may help you to discern more in regards to your patients as well."

" _Maman_ ," Aramis began, trying to return the stone. His mother closed her fist around the two remaining in her hand and put both hands behind her back. "Stones are not my gift, _maman_ , I see dead people." He set the heavy pack on the floor by his feet. He was at the same time touched that she had done this for him, and more than a bit reticent.

"The elements in things of the earth can be powerful tools for healing, René, dismissing them out of hand could mean the difference between life and death for one of your extended family."

"That's low." Aramis' fingers closed around the stone without volition. He felt the strange surge of intuition, that still small voice whispering _listen to her_.

"Since you will neither allow me to assess your gift nor give me the time to teach you properly-"

The marksman ran an impatient hand through his hair. " _Maman_ , this is exactly _why_ I did not tell you before. I'm not a healer, I'm a medic at best, a poor substitute for a doctor, useful for little more than tourniqueting severed limbs, sewing up small cuts, or salving bruises."

"Porthos says otherwise."

The scowl this provoked warned of trouble for one large Musketeer. "Porthos is fond of me, he gives me credit for far more than I deserve."

"Why are you afraid of a few stones?"

Of course her aim would be true. " _Maman_ , I cannot be practicing sorcery in the middle of the Musketeer garrison," Aramis huffed exasperatedly.

"To be gifted, my son, is to carry an obligation. Besides, anyone can learn to use these, they will merely be more powerful tools in your hands." She reached for the hand that did not have a piece of lapis lazuli digging into the palm. "This one," Catherine deposited a piece of black rock in the cup of his hand, "I want you to put deep in a pocket in a piece of clothing the _comte_ wears all the time, as close to his heart as possible. There is a deeply rooted grief in your friend he would not let me near enough to make any attempt to ease. This perhaps will aid him." She closed Aramis' fingers over a thumbnail-sized piece of chisel-scored stone. "Obsidian activates the root chakra and clears the aura of negative energy. I've ... suggested ... "

Aramis could not stop the amused twitch of his lips at her attempt to exculpate the stone from her witchery.

"...that once placed, it pretend it does not exist so he won't find it."

"Fine, I suppose can manage to get it in his coat without his knowledge." Capitulation was not easy, but his brothers were waiting and she would not let him go until he agreed.

"Thank you!" The beacon of a smile she bestowed on him could have lit eleventy-forty dark nights. "You must let me know if it makes any headway against his grief."

"Aye, _maman_ , I will be sure to take notes and send you regular reports. I suppose you have a stone you wish me to place on or about d'Artagnan's person as well?"

"No." There was in the fathomless depths of the dark eyes, a bright twinkle. "I will give it to him myself." She opened her hand to reveal a nugget of turquoise. "You must know your baby Musketeer, as I heard Porthos call him, is conflicted about following this path. Turquoise encourages acceptance of ourselves as we are, wants and all. His desire is powerful, but so is the guilt he carries. If he does not come to understand he must integrate the darkness and pain he has experienced, with the wants and desires, he will never be whole. None of us can have one without the other, but he is young yet and does not have the experience to fully comprehend this. The turquoise will aid his grappling for an acceptable balance. All he needs to know is that it's a pretty stone I'm sending off with him as a memento of his time here with us."

"You've raided the markers from Goose."

It was Catherine's lips that twitched this time. "You thought them just pretty bits of colored glass and stone did you not?"

"How many times did we play that game?"

"And handle those stones," his mother said complacently. "Yes, I am a scheming woman." Catherine rose on tiptoe to kiss her son on the forehead. "And my scheming has paid off in spades. Just look what you've become! And the new family you're brought home to us. I do hope it will not be so long between visits now that you've reconciled yourself to your heritage."

"It was not _just_ that issue that kept me from home." Aramis returned the kiss, along with a warm encompassing hug. "Unlike being in the army, we don't have long stretches where we're doing nothing but polishing the arsenal or counting supplies. We have far more responsibilities as the king's personal guard, but I will try to arrange to be here more often, though we were fortunate to have this long this time."

"I know. And I appreciate that you coaxed the _comte_ into stopping here at all."

"Thank you for making him comfortable enough here to emerge from his shell a little. I've never seen Athos this relaxed."

"It was our immense pleasure to host all of you, and now you must be on your way, I've kept you long enough. Go with God's blessing, my son, and may the good Lord grant safe traveling mercies on your road back to Paris."

Aramis hefted the bag at his feet, slinging the leather strap over his shoulder before taking his mother by the arm to escort her back downstairs. "I will send word on our arrival."

Catherine snugged his arm into her side, savoring these last few minutes of physical contact with her son, absorbing the bright essence of his spirit, storing up the bergamot and citrus scent of him, the way his hair curled over his ears before he set his hat upon his head, released her and bowed over her hand, kissing the work roughened fingers lingeringly before bussing her cheek once more.

Athos and Porthos were mounted as well, when they exited through the double front doors, thrown wide open at the moment.

The twins were prancing around d'Artagnan's horse, who d'Artagnan had taught to count and bow and even dance, squealing with delight as the pair put on their little show. The girls - all of them, including tiny Catherine - were variously oo'ing and ah'ing at the brilliance of both horse and rider, while the men - most of them - were betting on how long it would take the horse to rid itself of its rider.

Last hugs were exchanged before Aramis was allowed to mount as well and in moments, the quartet was away, three blue cloaks and one battered brown one, streaming out behind as the horses moved to a canter. Three hats lifted in farewell and d'Artagnan turned in the saddle to wave, the glint of turquoise visible between gauntleted thumb and forefinger before he shoved it inside his jacket, turned forward and caught up with his brothers as the lane widened.

Catherine appropriated a seat on the stone stoop and wrapped her arms around her knees as her family in ones and twos and threes, returned to the house, laughing and lamenting the success of the week and the huge hole the quartet's departure was going to leave in the fabric of their lives for some time to come.

The hole would fill up again in time, it always did when their precious prodigal returned to the fold, then left again. This time though, a shadow on Catherine's soul had been lifted, her mothers' heart both eased and affirmed and enlarged yet again to accommodate the adoption of two more children of the heart.

Her spouse sat down beside her, the last of their offspring disappearing inside as the sound of drumming hoofbeats faded away. Charles slipped an arm around his dearly beloved, urging her head down on his shoulder. "Did you resolve things with him, my love?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. It was always like this when one of her chicks left the nest, it did not matter what errand they were off to, or where they went. Like a mother hen, she was happiest knowing they were all nearby and in her element when all were home under her roof.

"I am astonished every time he comes home, how much more like you he has become, in looks and wit and charm. He will be your legacy?"

"Aye, he will be that. You knew?"

"Knew?" Charles echoed. "Not in the way you mean, but I've suspected for a long time. He so like you, Catherine, I could not imagine the gift would not manifest in him. It took longer than I imagined it would, given the stories of your own youth, but I think for all it took its time, he will be the stronger for it, able to possess it rather than be possessed by it."

"Yes, of course you are right, I had not thought of that."

"Only because you are too overwhelmed with gratitude that it is so." Charles kissed the top of the brown head now turning to silver. "I am the most fortunate of men and grateful to know it."

"We are much blessed, are we not?" Catherine rose and shook out her skirts. "Come, I'm in the mood to celebrate, even if there will be no more babies."

The End

* * *

As always, from my heart to yours, deeply felt gratitude for every choice you've made to spend time in my corner of fan fiction. For every footprint left behind by 'favoriting' or 'following' and especially to each of you who took time to leave a review - thank you! Not one comment goes untreasured! And thank you for hanging in there with me as I finished this! Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The known characters in this story are the property of the British Broadcasting Company, its successors and assigns. The original characters, the setting, and the story itself, are the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.


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